Magic One Shots
by grannysknitting
Summary: What it says on the tin - a series of short, unrelated stories in the magic!John verse that didn't fit into either of the two stories I've written. Some serious, some cracktastic, some just for the fun of it. Rated for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Timeslip**

Sherlock watched as John unlocked their front door, totally unaware that his flatmate was on the other side of the road. For a former soldier and Mage, you'd have thought his situational awareness would be a little sharper. As the designated 'evil genius' in their partnership – a badge bestowed on him after an incident that involved large quantities of alcohol and some kind of magical hiccup – Sherlock pondered the best way to startle said partner before he got inside.

He watched John pause and fish his phone out, evidently reading a new text and then sending a reply. Seconds later his own phone buzzed and Sherlock fished it out, suspicions growing.

_Don't even think about it. JW_

Sherlock sighed and stuffed his phone back into his pocket before trotting quickly across the road, catching the door before it could swing shut.

"You weren't even in disguise!" John called from the stairs, not even glancing back as he climbed up them. Sherlock didn't mind – in fact he rather enjoyed the view.

"Your acting has improved," Sherlock replied in an approving tone. The more devious John became the better for their agency. He bounded up the stairs as John chuckled, catching up with his partner as the man opened the door of their flat. John seemed to stumble over a hidden step as they crossed the threshold and there was a sudden heated rush of air. Lights flared in the front room, then settled down to a yellow glow.

Sherlock knew that something magical had happened at once, for two reasons. One, the layout of the room and its contents had radically changed: and two, John's scent became sharp with snow and wood smoke.

There was a fire in the fireplace instead of their heater, the lights on the wall were gaslights, not electric and the mess was of a decidedly different calibre. There was a dining table in the front room and their kitchen area was given wholly over to a chemistry set. The furniture was Victorian, well worn.

John Watson was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, staring at them with surprise over the broadsheet newspaper he'd been reading. This John Watson was not Sherlock's and yet was – the hair was longer and more elaborate. There was an endearingly ridiculous moustache. He wore a suit of brown cloth and an air of military discipline. He was also staring at them in shock.

"I thought you were a morphine induced hallucination," both Watson's declared at the same time. Sherlock was delighted to hear a distinct Scottish trill to the _other_ John's accent, as opposed to his John's London accent. There was a pause, then Watson quirked that familiar mischievous grin that Sherlock's John wore so often – different with the moustache but recognisable just the same – and folded the paper into his lap.

"I guess not," they both continued and Sherlock frowned. It would be very annoying if the two John's in the room were to speak the same words at the same time for the duration of this encounter.

"Look, John, this Watson doesn't mind having a proper chemical rig set up in the front room," Sherlock beamed, taking advantage of the rooms obvious surrender to his profession, "Surely…"

"Dr Watson doubtless has a partner who leaves the dead body parts in the laboratory or morgue," John interrupted, proving he could speak for himself, "We're not having this argument again."

John sounded amused, rather than upset about Sherlock's attempt, so that was alright. The Watson in the chair was regarding him with surprise though, recognition drawing over his face.

"Holmes?" he asked, "My goodness… you look so different…"

Sherlock frowned, instantly curious as to what the Sherlock Holmes this Victorian gentleman was used to. He glanced around as if expecting to find the other man hiding behind a piece of furniture – it was clear that _some_ version of himself lived here – the Stradivarius violin in its case, the paraphernalia around the flat and the knife in the mantelpiece all spoke of his presence.

"How does your wound go?" John asked curiously and Watson grimaced.

"I'll never practice as a surgeon again – I lost too much strength in the limb, and my movement is restricted. That plus the damage to the Achilles tendon have restricted me to work as a GP… when I'm not chasing Holmes through London," Watson sighed and pulled out a pipe, which he began to pack swiftly, "And you?"

"The shoulder isn't too bad that I can't practice, and they fixed the tendon… I'm lucky – we now have different surgical techniques that can help that sort of injury. I work in an emergency medicine department now – the shift work allows me to chase Sherlock through London too," John replied, and Watson nodded, his eyes disturbed.

"That there should be another war in Afghanistan… another Maiwand," he shook his head, "What's it all for, I wonder?"

"Human nature is warlike, I suppose," John replied, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs in clear warning. No spoilers about the future, then, and Sherlock pouted, shifting to the side to try and see more of the room. John snaked an arm out and held him in place, plastered to John's back – a position that Sherlock enjoyed in other settings. He watched the Watson in the chair read their body language, the way Sherlock accepted John's casual embrace and wondered if they were about to be treated to a very Victorian bout of homophobia. He was not prepared for the flash of pained envy, quickly disguised as he lit his pipe, which the other man experienced.

"Stay still, Sherlock, you'll disturb the field," John warned. Sherlock nodded and sniffed with interest at the pipe smoke that was wafting their way.

"Are we here because he's a Mage too?" Sherlock asked, looking down at his own personal Mage. The Watson in the armchair choked in surprise and John shot him a concerned look.

"You've told him?" Watson asked, and John nodded, shrugging.

"You banished a demon in front of the fireplace," John sighed, "It came back. Sherlock walked in on me getting rid of it again."

"You haven't told me? Your version of me?" the sentence was awkward in his disappointment. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this centuries Sherlock Holmes didn't have this centuries John Watson in quite the same way.

"No," Watson said shortly, "He's not…"

"Watson, who are you talking to?" the voice was Sherlock's, but the man that emerged from Sherlock-and-John's-future-bedroom was not quite like Sherlock at all. His dark hair was shorter and pasted back with some sort of Victorian hair product, his fingers stained with chemicals and tobacco. He was tearing trousers and waistcoat and a real dressing gown, the sleeve of one arm partially rolled up. It was obvious that the Holmes in front of them was high – had in fact just finished injecting himself with a fresh dose.

"What is it tonight, Holmes, morphine or cocaine?" there was pained sorrow in Watson's voice. Sherlock shuddered at it and pressed himself even more closely to John's back, trying to burrow inside his partner's warmth. This was where he had once been – his mind wasting away in the influence of the drugs he took. In Victorian times, both drugs were readily available at the chemist – doctors administered cocaine to their patients, even prescribed it.

"A seven percent solution of cocaine, Watson," the Holmes in front of them frowned, "It may have been contaminated by something… there appears to be two inappropriately dressed men in the doorway, one of whom bears remarkable resemblance to your good self."

"Holmes, you'll ruin yourself with this," Watson sighed, getting up and going to his friend, "Your health…"

"Is no longer your concern, as you are about to abandon me to the pleasures of a lonely hearth in favour of pursuing wedded bliss with Miss Morstan," Holmes interrupted. Sherlock shivered.

It was clear to him that the Watson before him was unable to bear watching his Holmes kill himself with drugs and therefore had decided to leave the warmth of Baker Street to pursue the phantom of a normal life in the arms of a woman. This could have happened to him. If ever he needed another reason to remain clean, it was standing here in front of him – a shell of the man he could have been. _This_ Holmes' drug addiction had killed his chance at the partnership, the amazing, rewarding incredibly enriching partnership that Sherlock now enjoyed with _his_ John Watson. He could not imagine life without John, now that he'd experienced a life with him – he would not survive having to go back to the cold, lonely existence that he had once endured.

"Take heart, Dr Watson," John said softly and then stepped back from the doorway, pushing Sherlock with him. Sherlock stumbled over nothing and found himself back on his landing, the open door to the flat showing John's laptop and the glow of electric street lights.

He grabbed John around the waist and buried his face in the strong neck, sniffing the magically enhanced scent and shaking a little.

"Never, never, never," he muttered, and John's arms came up around him, squeezing in understanding.

"I know, Sherlock," John murmured, "I know."

**End**** (for now…)**

**More? Let me know…**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**The Case of the Missing Pen**

Mycroft Holmes scrutinised his desk carefully, then gave up, closed his eyes and patted his hands over the surface hopefully.

Nothing.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a moment, then muttered imprecations under his breath.

"Anthea!" he called and waited as his assistant stepped into the room, her eyes glued to the ever present Blackberry, "If you would be so kind as to find my pen?" he asked, strain evident in his voice.

The beautiful woman – and she was, there was no denying it – gave him an incredulous look and picked the pen up off the table, putting it in his hand.

"If you're going to start channelling your brother's eccentricities, sir, I will have to reconsider my employment," she informed him and stepped back out of the room, presumably to research psychiatrists and behavioural experts. This was the fifteenth time today that Mycroft had lost his pen – Anthea had always found it lying in apparently plain sight on his desk.

Gripping the offending implement in one hand, Mycroft picked up his mobile with another and called the one man in London he didn't want to be beholden to. Being in Sherlock's debt was bad enough, but things were getting ridiculous now.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end of the line sounded perfectly ordinary, which was one of the things Mycroft found so galling about dealing with this man. He appeared to be perfectly normal, just another average man in an average world. There was absolutely nothing to indicate that you were dealing with the most dangerous man in the UK, bar none.

"I need your help," Mycroft spoke through gritted teeth, "May I come to your flat?"

There was a startled pause and a voice in the background, asking who was on the phone and what was wrong.

"Certainly," came the reply and they hung up, Mycroft heading for the door of his office, his right hand clenched tightly around what felt like nothing at all.

221B Baker Street was not the most salubrious sounding address, but his brother seemed to find it adequate to his needs, despite the trust fund that would have allowed him to buy not only the building his flat resided in, but the whole 200 block. Sherlock was glaring down at the street from his front window as Mycroft stepped out of the ubiquitous black car – really, who did they think they were fooling, there might as well have been flashing lights and a sign on the damn thing – but he was used to his little brothers sulks and ignored it as a matter of course.

Mrs Hudson let him in, beaming at him in her usual way, twittering on about how nice it was to see him visiting his own brother. Mycroft made pleasant chat with her – it wouldn't do to be rude – and wondered if she was as deluded about Sherlock's difficult nature as she appeared to be. John had left the front door open for him and Sherlock was now sulking on the couch, having flung himself there dramatically as Mycroft climbed the stairs. John was standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen, hands folded neatly in front of him.

"Hello Mycroft," the Mage of London said politely, "How can we help?"

"I cannot find my pen," it was ridiculously embarrassing to have to say it, especially when Sherlock scoffed and waved a hand at him.

"It's in your hand, Mycroft," his little brother's voice was dripping with disdain and Mycroft jumped, looking down to see the pen in his clenched hand once more.

"That's the problem," Mycroft looked up, the weight and feel of the pen disappearing at once, "Everyone else can see it, but I cannot. In fact the moment my attention is taken from the pen, I lose it once more. My assistant is threatening to resign and is researching psychiatrists as we speak!"

John frowned at him and gestured to Sherlock, who got up and came to his flatmates side at once. John shunted the taller man behind him and Mycroft recognised the move with a shock. John was _protecting_ his brother from something – from Mycroft in fact.

"Have you signed anything important recently?" John asked and Mycroft shook his head at once, exasperation clearly on his features.

"How can I have – _I cannot find my pen_," the last statement was perhaps a little louder than necessary, but frustration was beginning to wear on him.

John nodded, tilted his head and then pulled a pen out of apparent thin air. He clicked the top once and then began to write in the air, blowing softly now and then in Mycroft's direction. He paused once or twice to gauge the effects this writing-in-air was having and Mycroft stood still, scowling in dislike at having _Magic_ aimed at him.

After about ten minutes of this – ten minutes of John writing increasingly more complex things in the air while Sherlock practically snuggled up behind his lover and buried his face in the mans neck, sniffing avidly – there was a soft pop and Mycroft's pen dropped into his hand.

"The Egyptian treaty!" Mycroft exclaimed, "I signed it first thing this morning!"

How he'd forgotten such an important document was beyond comprehension – obviously someone had spelled the document to make him forget, which had leaked over to the pen that he'd used when signing it – and he examined the instrument in his hand before putting it down with a click on Sherlock's coffee table.

"Thank you, Dr Watson," Mycroft said sincerely. As deplorable as he found magic and its practice, he couldn't deny that his brother's partner had done him a service.

"I'll handle the magic side of things, Mycroft. I know how this was done and who did it," John replied as if Sherlock wasn't kissing his neck, spooned up behind him, "Have a nice day, what's left of it."

Mycroft nodded and left before he got a better glimpse of his little brother's intimate life than either of them wished.

It wasn't until he was back in his office that he realised that he now owed the Mage of London a favour.

**End**** (for now…)**

**More? Let me know…**

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	3. Chapter 3

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Unwelcome Guests**

"John, where is the sugar?" Sherlock called, rather annoyed that he couldn't find the tin that usually held the sought after commodity. It wasn't that he was making tea or anything, more that he needed to see the effects of adding sugar to the rather interesting compound he'd discovered as a by-product of his last experiment. The results were certain to be interesting, if not _dynamic_.

There was no response to his question and Sherlock tutted under his breath, annoyed but willing to check if his partner was in fact present in the flat before he sulked. It did not take long to determine that John was out – a moment's thought reminded him that John was at his other job now, working in the ER. That didn't mean he was willing to wait for John to return to find the sought after commodity.

_Where is the sugar? SH_

While he waited for a response – John kept his phone on silent in the ER and checked on a regular basis as per Sherlock's demands, the consequences of disobedience usually ending with damage to the flat – Sherlock started checking in the front room, just in case John had moved the blue and white tin out there in a fit of whimsy. John could be very whimsical – Sherlock had learned not to say illogical after the last argument – when he wanted to be, and Sherlock had learned to cope with it. He was quite proud of that, really.

_In the kitchen next to the tea. JW_

_Why? JW_

The texts came one after the other, and Sherlock smiled, checking the time. A five minute turn-around was a good response time, really.

_Need it for experiment. Tin not next to tea. SH_

As he waited for John to remember what he'd done with the tin, Sherlock turfed the cushions off the couch and out of the armchairs as well – or at least out of the armchair that had cushions to turf. He found a variety of coins, Mycroft's once cursed pen, a paperclip and a business card he'd been looking for the last three weeks and a phone charger that didn't fit either of their phones. There was also a burnt feather from his duck down experiment, three metatarsals and four human canines. Under the couch proved to be something of a goldmine as he discovered two nicotine patch boxes, both half full, a bicycle clip, three socks, none of which matched, and a Yorkie bar that he was certain hadn't been poisoned. He ate the bar while slapping on two patches and frowned around the flat, wondering where else he should check.

_Have you looked with your eyes open? JW_

A less than flattering response, but a valid one, as the last time Sherlock couldn't find something he had been searching blindfolded. Just to make sure that he hadn't forgotten and shut his eyes this time around as well, Sherlock went back out to the kitchen and looked next to the electric kettle, where the tins for tea, coffee and sugar sat.

_Eyes are open. Sugar gone. SH_

He deliberated for a moment and then sent another text as well.

_Tea tin also gone now. SH_

He was beginning to wonder if there wasn't someone in here with him. He had been certain that the red and green tea tin was sitting next to the kettle in its usual place when he'd first started looking for the sugar. It was a bit perplexing and certainly not what he expected of kitchen condiments.

_Coming home. Wait downstairs with Mrs H. JW_

That reply was totally unprecedented. Sherlock hesitated and looked around the flat, wondering why missing sugar and tea would prompt John to leave his shift two hours early. Perhaps his last suspicion was correct – there was someone, or rather _something_ in the flat with him. Being the full time lover of the Mage of London meant that now and then they had the odd unwanted guest. In the past this had been everything from practitioners of Magic that had strayed from the correct path, to demons to his brother and a cursed pen.

Sherlock stepped out into the front room once more and ran his eyes over the contents of their home, trying to spot whatever it was that had come for an unwanted visit. The skull on the mantelpiece looked back at him. It was a rather baleful look.

Mrs Hudson complained that 'if he kept slamming that door it would fall right off its hinges one day, young man' when he knocked on her door, but invited him in for a cup of tea anyway, asking after his health.

Apparently he looked a bit pale.

They both heard a small commotion about twenty minutes later, directly above them. From Sherlock's excellent sense of spatial awareness, he surmised that there was something going on in front of their fireplace. Mrs Hudson was concerned by the noise but Sherlock explained that it was John, mentioned in passing that his partner had come home early from work and was prone to nightmares when unwell and that soothed her worries somewhat. He gained points in her favour when he promised to go right upstairs and take care of John, though he made sure to linger out of sight at the top of the stairs.

Best not to distract his partner when he was busy.

John came out ten minutes later, a bite mark on one finger that Sherlock identified as coming from the skull itself. He captured the bitten finger in his own hand and examined it carefully, curious to see how teeth without the benefit of gums around them marked living flesh. John indulged him.

"What was it?" Sherlock asked when he'd seen enough. He led John into the bathroom, the better to wash and disinfect the finger in question. John sat on the edge of the bath and let Sherlock do as he would – yet another sign of how well his partner matched him.

"A couple of brownies," John replied, "Mischief makers that have a liking for sweet things. They must have followed you back from that crime scene with the tree sculptures – you know, the one where the artist was nailing road kill to the branches. You'd been sucking on mints for that sore throat of yours."

Sherlock blushed – he'd become quite hoarse due to a marathon shagging session they'd had – and swiped an antiseptic wipe over John's finger. John jumped, but didn't otherwise complain, apparently enjoying his blush.

"Does it need a poultice?" Sherlock asked and John shook his head, smiling as he got up. He caught hold of Sherlock's hips and pulled him close, kissing him with intensity while pushing a thigh between Sherlock's legs. His scent was cold and clear as snow again, making Sherlock's head spin with desire. He loved it when John smelt that way.

"No, but I could do with a shower," John replied, "Want to join me?"

Sherlock grinned and reached over to turn on the water.

**End**** (for now…)**

**More? Let me know…**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Time**** Slip 2**

Sherlock frowned in disapproval as the front door to their flat quivered, as though someone was unlocking it, and then frowned. John was currently here, lying on Sherlock's chest, wheezing slightly with bronchitis, caught when they'd had an unfortunate dip in the Thames. The water had not been as badly polluted as Sherlock had originally thought, but it _had_ been freezing. John had been a bit run down and they hadn't had a chance to go home and change until twelve hours later. His doctor was surprising stubborn about his health and so a cold and developed into bronchitis.

Sherlock had discovered that the best way to get John to stay in and rest was to demand 'couple time' – a concept he'd taken from trash telly. It mainly involved John allowing Sherlock to hold him in whatever setting and for however long he wanted. Sherlock had been scheming to demand his time in front of Anderson at some point, purely for the entertainment of seeing the other man pull that _face_ but had put his plans on hold until John was well enough to appreciate them too.

Their door sort of didn't open. Or rather, their door stayed shut but an older one opened and let in two men in Victorian clothes. The taller of the two was himself, in dark and tailored clothes – the other was the John Watson that he'd once seen smoking a pipe and despairing of ever becoming Sherlock Holmes partner in every sense of the word.

"Holmes?" the John Watson in the doorway was distinctly unwell – he wavered on the spot and squinted around the room, full of unfamiliar and outrageous objects.

"Don't be alarmed, dear chap;" Sherlock's historical counterpart wrapped a protective arm around the others waist, supporting him while attempting to deduce precisely what was happening, "You're ill. It's the fever."

Sherlock watched as John Watson was helped into the room and over to the chairs in front of their heater, where he was settled with an attention to detail that spoke all too clearly of his companions true feelings. The old Sherlock Holmes – a very satisfactory name as far as Sherlock was concerned – _did_ love his Watson, but had left that realisation too late. The wedding ring on Watson's finger spoke all too clearly for Sherlock to think otherwise.

"Mary will be worried," Watson mumbled, "I should go…"

"Rest yourself, dear chap. I sent her a note – and another to Anstruther. Your practice is covered tomorrow, which will give you time to recover," Holmes said gently, "You took the full dose of the scoundrels ether – you need to sleep."

"Like _he_ sleeps," Watson looked over towards Sherlock and his restless armful of wheezing Mage with naked longing. It was not difficult to deduce that the two men had been subjected to an attack while out on one of Holmes' cases and that Watson had been abducted – the rope burns, the faint redness from the chemical that had incapacitated him, the marks on his clothes and those on Holmes all spoke to a clear sequence of events.

"Yes," Holmes agreed, his voice slightly unsteady. Sherlock's other self was clearly disconcerted by the presence of a modern flat and two modern men in his home, but Sherlock knew that when both Watson's finally _gave in_ and went to sleep, this overlay of past and present would fade. John had never explained why this had occurred the first time around, and was in no condition to attempt it now.

What irked Sherlock was the way Holmes' hands lingered on Watson's body, touching to comfort and soothe, and yet the other man had clearly never declared his feelings for his partner. Watson was thin and worn and clearly spreading himself too thin – he had to earn a living, keep a wife and work with Holmes all at once, and all without the modern conveniences that made John's life so much easier. It offended Sherlock in a way he'd never expected that the other Holmes had let things get so bad.

And all because _he_ could not make the effort to give up_ his_ chemical crutch.

Watson was almost asleep now, and John was quieting as Sherlock rubbed his chest in gentle circles, feeling the labouring muscles relax under his soothing touch. Over by the armchairs, Watson was leaning his head into Holmes' hesitant hands, a stained thumb smoothing over his pale brow.

"Your drug addiction is killing him," the words burst from Sherlock's mouth, dripping with disdain and censure, "You're an _idiot_."

The look of displeasure on his other self's face was oddly satisfying as they faded away and John let out a sigh, turning his face towards the armchairs and mumbling Sherlock's name. He smelt of snow and wood smoke again, a scent that Sherlock found quite _delicious_ when it emanated from his lover. Unfortunately, John was in no condition to allow Sherlock to explore that scent.

Sherlock dropped a kiss on his head and tightened his hold, determined that _his_ John Watson would never know a day of despair because of Sherlock's former addiction.

**End**** (for now…)**

**AN** – set before ACD's 'Final Problem' – so Watson is married and Moriarty still at large.

**More? Let me know…**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Unexpected But Unchanged**

Sherlock let the street door bang shut behind him carelessly and clipped up the seventeen stairs to his flat. He noted that John was home already, having chosen to go to work instead of accompanying Sherlock on his quest for silt samples from the various underground rivers that swirled under London and smiled to himself. He needed a cup of tea, his microscope, a bath and a snog with John, probably not in that order. Given the damp and faintly unpleasant smell rising from his trouser cuffs, he'd need the bath _before_ he could snog John – his partner was very fond of cleanliness on the whole.

Their relationship was only months old. After Moriarty had attacked them at the pool, it had been evident to Sherlock that his feelings were stronger than the 'norm' for his flatmate-colleague-friend. John evidently returned Sherlock's feelings if his reaction to the tempestuous kisses that Sherlock had ambushed him with were anything to go by. Sherlock had needed to sit on a cushion at his microscope the next day. They hadn't heard from the master criminal since the pool, which Sherlock had mixed feelings about. He wasn't dead, but beyond that Sherlock was unwilling to speculate.

It appeared that his flatmate-partner-lover-friend was on the phone, as he could hear John speaking in a quiet, intent voice. As he neared the landing, Sherlock became aware that the smell he had associated with his trouser cuffs was stronger and there was a faintly stertorous breathing noise coming from the room John was in. That was a bit wrong, so the thin genius sped his last steps, wondering what was happening in their flat.

Sherlock pushed the door to the front room open and came to an abrupt halt. There was something in front of their fireplace.

"Sherlock. Don't. Move," the command came from John and froze the consulting genius where he stood, shock coursing through his body. He began to wonder if he'd been inadvertently exposed to something hallucinogenic in the waters of the sealed rivers.

The room was on fire. Green flames (methane? What else burned green?) spit and crackled all over the room, burning without leaving any charring or ash or smoke or heat… which was clearly impossible?

The thing in front of the fireplace burnt with green flame as well, covering a distorted skeleton. It wavered in place, breathing heavily and glaring at Sherlock with deadly intent. It was bipedal, though from the configuration of the legs it was more accustomed to running on four feet than walking on two – a hunter, then. It snarled; revealing wicked sharp teeth and Sherlock wrenched his eyes away, looking instead for John.

John was standing in front of the kitchen, a small wooden chest in front of his feet. He had a bottle in one hand which he was shaking gently, his thumb over the top of it, keeping the contents of the bottle from spraying out. His other hand was up and facing the thing in front of the fireplace, the palm bleeding from a self inflicted cut. His face was calm and intent, as if he was working on one of those stupid crosswords he enjoyed in the morning with his tea. His stance said 'I am in control here' and Sherlock was relieved by it. Someone needed to know what to do with this impossibility.

The thing in front of the fireplace shifted as if to step towards Sherlock and John barked at it, his voice commanding and strong, the words indistinct. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he'd gone mad – he could hear John speaking clearly, hear the tone and the intent behind the words, but the words themselves were oddly muffled – they made no sense: there was no syllabic pattern to them.

There was a bright flash and Sherlock flung his arm in front of his eyes to shield them. There was a rending, sucking noise and then peace and quiet. The smell disappeared abruptly and when Sherlock lowered his arm the flat was back to normal once more. The cut on John's hand had sealed over, leaving a faintly pink line and the bottle in his hand was now stoppered with a cork. Green flames swirled inside, a miniature firestorm beating furiously against the glass.

"Sherlock?" John put the bottle in the wooden chest and closed it before approaching him cautiously, as if Sherlock was the dangerous one, "Are you alright?"

There was fear in John's eyes that had not been there moments ago – it didn't take much thought for Sherlock to deduce that John was afraid that Sherlock would kick him out.

"What was that?" Sherlock gestured to the fireplace and John sighed, not even bothering to glance back at spot where the thing had stood. It was an oddly comforting non-gesture.

"A demon," John sounded resigned, "I need a cup of tea. Sit down; I'll make you one too."

John tugged Sherlock out of his coat and pushed him onto the couch gently, relieving him of the bag with his samples as well. The coat went onto the hooks by the door, the samples in the kitchen next to his microscope and then John was making tea, the sounds so familiar and _ordinary_ that Sherlock would have doubted the thing John called a demon had been in front of the fireplace … if not for the wooden chest still sitting on the carpet.

John came back with tea and sat on the coffee table, something that broke one of John's usual furniture rules: the chairs were for sitting, the table was for books, magazines and feet. Sherlock sipped his tea, made just the way he liked it, and tried to reconcile the events he'd just witnessed with the normality he sat in now.

"You have questions," John stated, "Go on then."

"A demon? Where did you get a demon?" Sherlock blurted. John snorted and ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired and worn, which Sherlock decided he didn't like at all.

"I didn't get one, Sherlock, it came by itself. In simple terms, in all of the various possible physical dimensions around us, there is one inhabited by creatures like that. Sometimes they find a crack that will lead them from their world to ours…"

"We had a crack in front of the fireplace," Sherlock interrupted, squinting at said fireplace, trying to see the crack for himself.

"Yes, a temporary one, but I sealed it over when I bottled up the demon. I'll get rid of it properly later," John replied, not at all angry that he'd been interrupted. Sherlock sipped his tea again and stopped squinting: it gave him a headache and from the look John was giving him, his lover thought he was _cute_.

"How did you know what to do?" Sherlock frowned, the thought dawning on him way too late that John seemed very knowledgeable and not at all surprised by the events he'd just seen. John closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to make up his mind, his jaw set.

"There are people in this world who are born with a natural ability to manipulate the energies of the physical world. Users of magic, is the common term: through incantations and other such devices, we work with the fabric of the world to maintain a balance," John looked at him trepidation clear in his eyes, though his face was impassive.

"Magic," Sherlock frowned, "A clandestine group of people who practice magic."

"Yes," John nodded, "The common practitioner is either a witch or wizard – they access the lower orders of magic."

"You're a wizard?" Sherlock frowned, and John shook his head.

"I'm a Mage," the pride in that statement was unmistakable, "Much stronger than your average Wizard. I usually don't practice magic though – after Afghanistan… well, I just don't. That demon was the first bit of proper magic I've performed for a year."

"Can you show me how you … no, of course. It's a clandestine group – there will be strictures in place to prevent you from telling me about their practices," Sherlock frowned and John sighed, putting aside his mostly untouched mug of cold tea.

"Yes there are," he replied, running a hand through short hair, "But I'm willing to give you _some_ information. Partly because it seems stupid to pretend this afternoon never happened, but mostly because I love you, Sherlock…"

Here, John trailed off and leaned forward hesitantly. Sherlock smiled, put his own tea aside and hauled John into his lap for a thorough snog. When they came up for air there was relief in John's eyes, as if he'd been worried that Sherlock would reject him for not being 'normal'. Sherlock's research on the internet said that as a supportive partner he was now supposed to make light of the situation with a humorous comment. He rejected half a dozen possibilities, finally choosing to go with:

"If you start pulling bunnies out of hats…" Sherlock used a lightly threatening tone and was rewarded by John laughing and kissing him soundly once more before climbing off and looking down at Sherlock.

"You need a shower – you smell like damp and other less pleasant things. I'll order some dinner – what do you want?" he asked and Sherlock pushed himself up off the couch.

"Chinese," he replied, heading for the bathroom, "I'll predict your fortune cookie!"

John's chuckle followed him into the tiled room. Sherlock beamed as he shut the door behind him. He'd made a good choice in his partner – John was _full_ of unexpected surprises and yet still recognisably himself. What more could a consulting genius ask for?

**End**** (for now…)**

**More? Let me know…**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Devoted Pets**

**AN** – Lestrade's turn for a bit of torture!

Once he'd gotten used to the idea that John Watson – partner to Sherlock Holmes, doctor-in-jumpers, ordinary John – was actually the Mage of London, it made perfect sense that now and then Geoff would see John do something that anyone else would find extraordinary. Occasionally at a crime scene, something would catch John's eye – something invisible – and he'd watch it for a while before returning his attention to the consulting genius bustling about making grand declarations.

It no longer surprised Geoff that there were times when the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he just_ had_ to call Sherlock in, knowing that John would come with him and make things seem normal again. Geoff found it hard to believe that other people hadn't noticed that magic was going on right under their noses and came to reluctantly agree with Sherlock that most people were terribly unobservant.

Not that he'd ever tell Sherlock that. The man had a big enough ego as it was.

Sometimes, when John and Sherlock weren't around and it was dark and he was alone on the streets or in an alley way, Geoff could sense that there was someone – or maybe some_thing_ – nearby. It's like being alone in the house, but feeling that someone was with you, or walking down a hallway at work and turning to look behind you because you thought someone was there. It's like turning to speak to the person standing next to you, but finding yourself talking to the air.

At first, Geoff put it down to tiredness. He'd been working long hours lately, trying to keep up with a rash of serious crimes, all apparently unconnected. Sherlock hadn't been interested, though Geoff had been pleased with the confirmation that the crimes were not the work of one person or a gang – Moriarty was still looming over their shoulders like the Sword of Damocles. Then it was down to being hyper alert – he'd been alone on a stakeout for a while, and he'd been separated from his team in a couple of the raids, going after runners. He'd also assumed that the presence he sometimes felt at home was because he was missing the family – his wife had won a dividend in the Euro Lottery and taken herself and the kids off to Barcelona for a two week vacation at Geoff's insistence. They hadn't had a proper holiday abroad for years and he wanted them to enjoy the money, instead of putting it into bills and other such sensible things.

Then someone murdered an allegedly respectable businessman and dumped his eviscerated carcass all over the Millennium Bridge, where a group of pre-dawn joggers had literally tripped over him. They'd needed several shock blankets and ambulances to deal with them and now Sherlock was dashing about, locating evidence that Anderson had missed and completely in his element.

"If it weren't for the dead body, this would be really a pretty view," John muttered from where he stood, hands in pockets, watching Sherlock with an indulgent glint in his eyes. The sun was coming up over the city, making the Thames glint and displaying London at her best.

"Yes, I suppose it would be," Geoff sighed, "Sherlock! Get down before you fall in!"

"Bloody idiot," there was affection in the comment and John moved off to corral Sherlock away from the railings. It struck Geoff that these two weren't just sleeping together; there was an emotional connection there, one that included love as well as friendship. He'd thought Sherlock was only attached because John was _interesting_, but there was more to it than that if the quick smile that Sherlock had graced his partner with before dashing off again was anything to go by.

Something brushed against his ankle for a moment, but when he glanced down, there was nothing there. Geoff glanced up in time to see that John was watching something no one else could see again but the Mage didn't seem to be too worried by whatever it was, so Geoff dismissed it from his mind and concentrated on getting the details he needed from Sherlock in order to make an arrest – or at least send his investigators in the right direction.

In the weeks that followed, Geoff became used to the feeling of being watched – or at least got better at ignoring it. He put the incidents from his mind and focussed on the work.

Three weeks and two crime scenes with Sherlock later, things took a turn for the weird when Donovan came late to work, wearing dark glasses and an unhappy expression. Anderson was also in poor spirits, by which Geoff understood that their on-again-off-again romance was once more _off_. That meant that Donovan was probably overtired and Anderson possibly hung over. Why they continued the affair when they spent half their time falling out was anyone's business, but as they had yet to jeopardise an investigation because of it, Geoff had no intention of stepping in and putting his foot down.

That was not the weird thing. Donovan collected coffees for herself and Geoff – a habit she'd gotten into when she'd been a constable – and came into his office for the morning briefing. Geoff usually had a few leads for her to follow up on, or wanted a progress report on whatever she'd been researching for him, so they usually spent thirty minutes or so in the morning touching base. As she entered his office, Geoff realised that she was indeed overtired, which tended to make her a little clumsy. He started gathering his notes in a pile, just in case, when she tripped over her own feet, sending scalding hot coffee in a deluge straight for his chest. That was not the weird thing either – the weird thing happened next.

Geoff braced himself for the impact of the hot liquid – which would cause minor burns and staining to his shirt at the least – when the liquid took an abrupt ninety degree turn in midair and splattered itself all over his filing cabinet instead.

"Oh god! Did I get you?" Sally was too distracted by her own fall and dropping her mug all over her leg that she fortunately hadn't noticed his coffee shooting off at angles.

"No, but the filing cabinet needs a wipe down," Geoff managed to sound perfectly normal – that is slightly exasperated and patient with her – and sent her off to clean up. He got the coffees himself, coming back into his empty office and hesitating by the door for a moment.

"Thanks," he muttered to empty air and then put the coffees down. While he was waiting for Sally to get back, he pulled his phone out and fired a quick text off to John, getting a reply just as she returned.

_See you at 8 – JW_

Sherlock was of course waiting in the front room with John, obviously curious as to why Geoff had texted his partner and not him.

"It's not a case," Sherlock announced as Geoff stepped through their front door and John rolled his eyes, waving Geoff to a seat where a cup of tea and some biscuits sat waiting for him, "He's here to consult with the Mage, not the detective and the doctor."

"Sherlock," John pinched his nose between finger and thumb, "Let Geoff explain, why don't you? Hullo Geoff."

"Hullo John," Geoff replied, grinning. Sherlock must have been making an absolute _pest_ of himself to get that tone out of patience-is-my-middle-name John Watson.

He explained about the coffee incident, then added the feeling of being watched, the odd brush against his ankles and his observation that John had been watching something at crime scenes, noting that John looked slightly guilty by the end of it.

"So out with it," he used his best voice, "What's going on?"

"You've attracted the attention of… a Pet, I suppose you'd call it. A psychic spirit which has latched onto you and wants to keep you company and keep you safe," John grinned, "The first time I saw it, I thought it was attached to Sherlock, but that wasn't the case. You've done something to catch its eye and now it wants to make you happy."

"Why didn't it come with me?" Sherlock pouted, sounding _disappointed_ of all things, "I'm much more interesting than Lestrade."

"I think we'll have to leave that mystery for later, Sherlock," John smiled at his partner, who sniffed and flounced out to the kitchen to very pointedly begin working with his chemistry set. Geoff took a moment to look away and get control of the laughter that wanted out, knowing it would exacerbate the situation. John also looked as if he was biting the inside of his cheek.

"So is it an animal?" Geoff asked, "How much intelligence does it have? Is it here now?"

"I'd imagine it is waiting for you in the car," John replied, amusement in his tone, "The Pet is quite intelligent, though limited… think of it as a clever dog. It's quite loyal, has the ability to protect you, but isn't particularly strong. It will accept the people close to you, but it's very much a one person Pet. Your family is in no danger from it, so you don't need to worry."

"Why me, though?" Geoff nodded his understanding of John's information, relieved that he didn't have to worry about the kids or the missus accidentally setting off his invisible 'friend'. John shrugged.

"You're a good bloke, Geoff. Why not you?" was the less than helpful reply, "It will stick around for a while and then either transfer its attentions to someone else, or cross over to the next world. You don't have to feed it, or even acknowledge it: there's nothing to worry about, really."

"Ok then," Geoff nodded and got up, "Thanks for the tea… and the information. Sorry about…" he gestured over to where Sherlock was sulking and John smirked.

It was a very _wicked_ smirk.

"Leave him to me," he chuckled and Geoff nodded, not wanting any further information on _that_ front. He said goodnight, called goodbye through to Sherlock, who ignored it and went back downstairs to his car.

"Home time," he announced to the empty air and started the engine, swinging out onto the road and heading for home.

Halfway there, the radio switched on to Classic FM.

**End**** (for now…)**

**More with Lestrade and his pet? Let me know…**

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	7. Chapter 7

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Magical Maladies**

Sherlock had never really paid much attention to the health of the people around him unless they were somehow connected to his work. If they weren't data relevant to a case, he didn't want to know if they were tired or hungry nor had a cold. He didn't care about bumped heads, bashed kneecaps or slammed fingers as applied to other people – the daily humdrum of their existence had nothing to do with _him._

Then he met John. The first thing he noticed was that his potential flatmate had a psychosomatic limp. He was never entirely sure _what_ moved him to cure that limp – John Watson was a boring, everyday stranger who could help to pay the rent and would appease Mrs Hudson's concerns that her lodger was all alone – but they had barely known each other for a day and there he was, proving to John Watson that his psychologist was right: the limp was psychosomatic and the cane totally unnecessary.

It didn't take a terribly long time before he was noticing things like 'John is tired' and 'John is hungry' and 'John is cold' – all distractions from the work, but somehow important to him. He learned how to alleviate those conditions without offending John's sense of independence, mainly by using the argument 'if you're too (insert condition here) you'll be no good to the work'. John came to accept those statements with time.

It wasn't until they became lovers that Sherlock learned that keeping John healthy made Sherlock _happy_. He inexplicably _enjoyed_ taking care of his partner; something about it filled a need that Sherlock had never even known he'd had. The fact that John allowed him to do so only made the experience more precious – in fact it was practically _girly_ the way it made Sherlock feel.

Once he learned that John was a Mage, keeping his partner healthy became even more important. As a Mage, John had access to a certain amount of power – he was connected to the world in ways that sometimes expressed themselves in a disturbing manner: especially if John was sick. How his partner had managed to disguise the effects his ill health had on his surroundings before they became lovers was something of a mystery to Sherlock – John certainly wasn't telling – although to be fair, John was very rarely ill.

A bad cold had led to a very high fever, which had led to it snowing over John's bed while he tossed and turned beneath the covers. Sherlock had stood and watched the phenomenon for a whole twenty eight seconds before realising that John needed his temperature lowered quickly if they were to avoid febrile convulsions and a quick trip to the hospital. Fortunately the snow had followed them to the bath; where cool water had eased the problem and it was much easier to mop the residue melt water up. Mrs Hudson had scolded Sherlock for drenching their bed, but he'd claimed he'd tripped with a bowl of water in his hands and she'd accepted that lie.

On another occasion, John had been exposed to a hallucinogenic substance (which had surprisingly _not_ been Sherlock's fault) and in his delirium he'd taken to levitating various objects in the flat. The cooker in particular had never been quite the same again and the microwave had needed replacing outright. Sherlock had been less than pleased when the skull had levitated its way out of the rear window, later to be retrieved from next doors gutters and watching the furniture bobble around the ceiling had been interesting but worrying.

However, it was the hiccups that caused the most destruction in the flat. Each paroxysm of the diaphragm was accompanied by a small, localised explosion. The first time John had the hiccups he'd been in the kitchen. They'd lost every jar in the cupboards, one at a time, all the eggs in the carton, the milk and several items of Sherlock's chemistry set, which had thankfully been empty of caustic ingredients at the time.

The damage could possibly have been less, but Sherlock had only ever heard of giving the sufferer of the hiccups a sudden fright to cure them – and with John's magic already out of control Sherlock became responsible for nearly half of the breakage before John could get across the message that he needed to be distracted, not frightened.

Fortunately, snogging was a _very_ acceptable distraction, as Sherlock was able to keep a single kiss going for quite some time, especially if he added a scalp massage with one hand into the mix (the other hand being involved in holding John as close as possible). Once he was certain that the hiccups had been cured Sherlock broke the kiss and told John to clean up his mess. After all, it was _his_ magic that did the damage – for once Sherlock was an innocent bystander.

He did very generously promise to administer the cure in the future whenever it was needed, provided John was willing to practice it with him on a regular basis. After all, they didn't want to have a repeat performance.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	8. Chapter 8

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**AN** – timed to coincide with ACD's 'The Empty House' (the reunion scene once Holmes has seen Moran arrested and taken Watson back across the road to their rooms in Baker Street) and a random dangerous event that John has excluded Sherlock from.

**Time Slip 3**

Sherlock was so incensed that he barely noticed the two men in Victorian clothes in the front room. He let the door slam against the plaster, knowing that John hated it when he damaged the flat but too angry to really care. The odd overlay of modern and old fashioned furniture swum before his eyes, but he ignored it in favour of expressing his dislike of John's latest actions explicitly – namely by dramatically stomping across the room.

"What were you thinking?" he whirled to glare at his partner, his back to the nearest window, the moustached Watson echoing his words with an equal amount of fury and frustration in them.

"I wanted to protect you!" John and the other Holmes retorted heatedly, "There was danger…"

Sherlock and Watson shared a look that spoke of perfectly matched emotions and understanding.

"I'm not afraid to face the dangers!" they chorused together, and Watson threw his hands up and stalked over to the further window, peering out while Sherlock folded his arms and glared. The other Holmes had noticed them and was torn between answering Watson's distress or getting to the bottom of this latest mystery. John was standing in the doorway, inching his nose between his thumb and forefinger in a way that spoke of exhaustion and patience and frustration. Sherlock huffed and glanced at their past selves, noting that Holmes was wearing clothes that were slightly too large for him, that he'd been travelling; he was also – for a change – not high. Watson was wearing all black, even his white shirt was bordered with black at the collar and cuffs – he was in full mourning then, the wedding ring on his right hand declaring that it was for his wife.

"I couldn't ask you to risk your life, Watson," Holmes spoke from where he stood in front of the mantelpiece, "You had obligations in England – Moriarty would not have hesitated to attack Mrs Watson."

"It should have been _my_ decision!" Watson hissed in reply, "I mourned you for three years, Holmes! I had thought that after all we shared I deserved at least a _warning_ that you were about to go into hiding."

"Sherlock, please, lets not argue about this," John reclaimed his partner's attention, evidently deciding to ignore the shadows in the room and their own argument, "Given a chance to do it over, I wouldn't change a thing. I was protecting you – you'd never have survived if Markwell got a hold of you."

"I don't agree," Sherlock snarled, aware that his counterpart was watching them and his Watson at the same time, "I'm not some helpless fool to be coddled!"

It was difficult to keep track of their argument, with disparate people speaking simultaneously, but Sherlock found it harder to accept when their past selves echoes their future comments in synchronisation – especially when it wasn't the two Watson's and the two Holmes speaking together. It was more unsettling that John and Holmes seemed to be on the same side of this argument – Sherlock was not used to being the wronged party as it was usually him giving offence and John calling him on it.

"I was trying to protect you!" Holmes and John blurted at the same time and winced at the looks they received in return, "It wasn't an ideal situation, but I did what I thought best!"

"I don't need your protection!" Watson and Sherlock spat back, "I can take care of myself!"

The emotions washing around the room were exhausting – doubtless it was this that had forged this overshadowing of past and future. Sherlock was practically vibrating with it where he stood, wanting John in his arms, but still too angry to welcome the connection that would come.

"That's not what I meant," John and Sherlock retorted, "You know that!"

"Do I?" the eerily echoed reply hung in the air, "Give me one good reason to forgive you! Explain to me why you would think leaving me behind was acceptable."

"Because I love you!" the cry hung in the air, and while John looked exasperated at having to remind his lover of two years that they were together because of an emotional connection and not just because they were compatible in bed, Holmes looked terrified.

Love between two men was not only illegal in Victorian London, it was considered to be a heinous sin. Confessing that love to someone as traditional as Dr John Watson – he of the trimmed moustache, with his mourning suit on for a wife that he'd loved – was tantamount to committing murder in front of a policeman.

Sherlock gave John a long look, seeing once more the man he loved behind the disappointment of being relegated to the sidelines by the Mage of London. John did indeed love him, and put up with all of Sherlock's foibles and quirks. Sherlock had left John behind once or twice on a case, and had been forgiven fairly quickly for his own transgressions. It behoved him to be just as forgiving now.

"I know you do," Sherlock dropped his arms from across his chest and held them out to John instead. He and Watson spoke the next bit together, as he knew they would.

"I love you too."

Holmes almost sobbed as Watson crossed to enfold him in his arms. They made an odd picture, two men in formal suits hugging in front of the fireplace. Sherlock lost track of them after that – mainly because John was in his arms now, pressing close and warm against his body.

"I'm sorry," John murmured, and Sherlock kissed him gently.

"Alright," he replied and put the argument aside, "Does that mean I get make up sex?"

"Sure," John grinned, his hands already trailing up to Sherlock's hair and down to his arse, "I'd like that."

"Me too," Sherlock mumbled and bent his head to take John's mouth in a passionate kiss.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	9. Chapter 9

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Devoted Pets 2**

As the doors to the ambulance opened Geoff noted – in that pained-dazed-barely conscious way that came with serious injuries – that John Watson was the doctor climbing in to evaluate him. This was a source of comfort and Geoff very nearly relaxed enough to let go of his tenuous hold on conscious thought. John noticed at once and demanded that he stay awake in such a commanding tone that Geoff had no other choice but to obey.

Hence his awareness of the evaluation, diagnosis and treatment of each of his many injuries, despite the drugs that his team of doctors administered. His attacker had no qualms about beating him nearly to death – he'd known full well that he was trying to kill an inspector from Scotland Yard and had revelled in the act. Taunts as well as blows and kicks had rained down on Geoff Lestrade in that warehouse and he'd been heading for that final loss of consciousness with the knowledge that his wife would not be able to recognise his body.

Then there had been a loud bang, a significant displacement of air and the blows had stopped. Not long after he had managed to moan loudly enough for the coppers searching for him to hear. Donovan had finally caught up with him just before the ambulance had arrived, shaken out of her normally hard professional demeanour by the sight of his injuries and whatever had happened to his attacker.

Lestrade suspected that it had been his Pet. Ever since John Watson had identified it for him, Geoff had become accustomed to the invisible presence, leaning against his legs or tugging on his coat to direct him away from danger or towards a suspect. He'd taken to addressing remarks to it in the car or when he was alone and had gotten the sense that it enjoyed being spoken to. His habit of thanking it had also gone over well, though they could not agree on choice of radio stations in the car – it insisted on Classic FM and he preferred to listen to BBC1.

"How is he?"

The deep, cultured voice that intruded on his painfully slow – in all sense of the words – thinking was familiar. It had been quiet where he was for some time and Geoff had the sense that he'd been moved from the ER and treatment rooms into a bed on the ward. It had been late at night when he'd been attacked and the ER had been full of noise and bustle. He much preferred this room, wherever it was, if only because the noise had hurt his head more.

"He's badly hurt, but he'll live."

The answering voice was John Watson, which meant that the first voice had been Sherlock Holmes. Geoff was surprised the thin genius was there, although he knew that Sherlock had developed the habit of collecting John from work when he remembered his partner's schedule.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, the question accompanied by a rustle of cloth and the sigh that John made when his genius partner wrapped his arms around the smaller man from behind.

"Lestrade's team were tracking down a group of thieves working in the warehouses off Limehouse," John murmured quietly, "They got separated and in the confusion, one of the thieves got the jump on Geoff and made a spirited attempt at beating him to death."

"Donovan is going to regret her error," that had the sound of a vow to it, which surprised Geoff. He was always surprised when Sherlock got protective of the people around him, doubly so when Geoff was on the receiving end of Sherlock's odd brand of concern and support. He was more accustomed to the consulting detective's detached distance than to his cool consideration.

"How did she find Geoff?"

"She didn't – some uniforms heard a bang and followed the sound. Geoff moaned loud enough to get their attention," John sounded angry at Geoff's sergeant and he made an effort to rouse himself and speak in her defence, but couldn't manage it.

"It wasn't entirely her fault – I think Geoff was following his Pet. In fact, it was his Pet that saved him," John startled Geoff with his insight, but the DI supposed that Sherlock was rubbing off on his flatmate, "It shoved a box onto Geoff's attacker – heavy enough and from a height great enough to kill the other man."

"I thought that Pets weren't that strong," Sherlock mused, "You said they could divert liquid in small amounts – like a spill from a coffee cup – or shove a cushion at you if you tripped, or even tug on your clothes or lean on you to show you which way to go."

"That's right," John confirmed, "But if they really want to – if they're sufficiently alarmed and significantly attached to whoever they are following, they can release all of their energy in one cataclysmic burst. This gives them the strength to move something heavy for a short distance… but it also results in their 'death'. I had to put a sneaky spell on Geoff to cleanse him of the residue of that final outburst."

"His Pet is dead?" Sherlock sounded intrigued, but Geoff was saddened by the news. He'd become… fond of the thing in his own way. It was a sort of company, a friendly presence he'd become accustomed to; and now he wouldn't be able to thank it.

"Well, it's no longer on this plane of existence," John replied, "It's complicated."

"Multiple dimensions," Sherlock sighed, sounding resigned to not knowing all that he wanted to know at once. Geoff was pleased to hear it – the consulting genius had never been one for patience with limits before.

"Hmm," John agreed, "I wouldn't be surprised if he attracts another one eventually. There's something in his aura that would appeal to a Pet."

There was silence for just long enough for Geoff to wonder if the other two men were still with him – still standing beside his bed in the hospital, though he was unable to verify that beyond what his ears had told him – when Sherlock surprised him again.

"Are you sure he's going to be alright?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It will take a while, but he'll heal… where are you going?"

"To get the poultice box from our kitchen: some of those injuries can be healed with a poultice and I know you can disguise them under his bandages. The quicker he heals, the less time I'll have to spend training another DI."

John chuckled as quick footsteps hurried away. There was a light touch on Geoff's forehead which he identified after a moment as John's hand.

"Sleep, Geoff. You'll be ok soon."

**End**** (for now…)**

**AN – what do you think? Should Lestrade have a new Pet?**

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	10. Chapter 10

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**AN** – set a few weeks after the events of 'playing with fire'

**The Odd Bit of Gossip**

His missus would no doubt call them 'a couple of old women', but Geoff had gotten into the habit of meeting up with John Watson for a drink and a gossip on a regular basis. Usually they went to a pub, but now and then they ended up in Baker Street – partly because it was there that they could discuss the hidden world that existed side by side with Geoff's everyday one.

It had taken him a few days, but Geoff was now completely comfortable with the knowledge that John Watson was a Mage – was in fact _the_ Mage of London – and therefore saw and experienced things in an entirely different way to the DI. This acceptance of something that was quite frankly bizarre had probably been made easier because Geoff had watched John first meet, then accept, then grow to love Sherlock Holmes – excentric consulting genius and part time cross to bear.

Said genius was out at the moment, conducting an experiment in Bart's labs and morgue – something to do with having access to the incinerator and Geoff hadn't wanted to know beyond that. Plausible deniability was sometimes his greatest ally.

John had broken out the scotch, and there was an assortment of savoury things to graze through as well, so with the lights on low and the heater glowing, it was an extremely companionable setting. They sat opposite each other in the armchairs – John was in Sherlock's, mainly because the thin man had taken to sitting in Lestrade's chair at the office in retaliation – and they had already covered the health of various family members as they settled in.

"Anderson and Donovan have broken up, permanently," Geoff shared the gossip with a glint in his eye, "Thank god, because they were on the verge of receiving official cautions for their conduct."

"That may be partly my fault," John didn't sound too upset by that, "You remember that Anderson was cursed, back when those teens tried to raise a water demon?"

"Yes…" Geoff drawled, not sure where this was going. He took a bracing swallow of his fine single malt scotch – John hated blends with a vengeance – and levelled a teasing glare at his friend. John snorted at him, completely unintimidated; though given the glares that Sherlock was capable of, the doctor had probably built up an impressive immunity.

"Well, the curse he was hit with was nasty enough, but they'd over powered it. I had to do some quick on-the-spot casting to ameliorate the worst of it," John sighed, "The hand tremor was one thing I couldn't control – he had touched a cursed surface with it, and there are consequences to that sort of thing, but as for the residue… It would have killed him eventually if I hadn't found a way to contain it."

"You made him impotent?" Geoff guessed, and John shot him a horrified look. Geoff shrugged – everyone knew that Anderson was a cheat, and Geoff privately disapproved of that very strongly. He knew that John prized loyalty as well, so it made sense that the Mage would channel the curse into an area that would prevent Anderson from continuing to act in a way that John and Geoff both abhorred.

"Not all the time," he replied indignantly, "Only when he's with someone who is not his partner – and as he's still married…"

"He can only perform for his wife," Geoff nodded, "Well; you won't get any argument from me. You know how I feel about cheaters."

"Mmm," John looked dissatisfied, "Of course, if he divorces her, then he'll be able to perform for whoever he dates next, provided he only dates one person at a time."

Geoff chuckled and toasted the Mage opposite him. They refreshed their glasses and resettled in their chairs, a comfortable silence falling for a moment.

"You were cursed too, weren't you?" Geoff had been wondering for a while, but hadn't had the opportunity to ask, "When you were overseas."

"The hand tremor is from nerve damage – it's intermittent because the scar tissue from my shoulder wound is irregular," John replied, clearly not offended, "The limp I had when we met _was_ from a curse."

"Sherlock always claims that _he_ cured that," Geoff frowned, "I thought he didn't know you were a Mage straight away."

"He did cure it, but unknowingly," John grinned, "Put simply, and without going into the details of how I was cursed, to undo the conditions of the curse I had to find my life partner. Sherlock being Sherlock was enough to break the curse."

"You haven't told him that," Geoff guessed and when John shook his head, he grinned at his friend, "Mum's the word, then. God knows his ego doesn't need to get bigger."

John laughed and Geoff leaned over to grab a handful of snacks, the scar on his wrist catching the light for a moment. He'd broken his wrist in a beating sustained on a case that hadn't involved Sherlock. He'd needed surgery to correct some of the damage, though John had also applied several poultices in the first few hours of his recovery to speed things along.

"Did I thank you for the poultices?" Geoff asked, "I can't remember if I ever did. By the time things were back to normal and I was on duty again, you'd disappeared to take on Moriarty."

"You're welcome," John replied, "But you don't need to thank me. I take care of my own."

The Mage was very much in evidence in _that_ statement.

"Dimmock accused me of adultery with you," Geoff hadn't quite meant to say that, but it was a response to the tone of John's voice and his subtle change in posture, "Because you claimed me as one of your own, so he assumed it was a sexual relationship."

John snorted and shook his head, disgust in his expression.

"Because the idea of two men being good friends is so odd," he sounded disgusted too, "I guess Dimmock never had a true friend before."

"Sucks to be him," Geoff agreed and they grinned at each other again, the Mage receding once more to leave John behind, "Speaking of poultices, did you ever work out why they send Sherlock to sleep?"

"Yeah," John sighed, "It's the drugs… when he abused the cocaine and morphine; he did a lot of damage to himself: his heart in particular. The poultices are trying to correct that damage as well as whatever it is I've employed them for."

"They're trying to draw the poison left behind, out," Geoff realised, "Will it work?"

"He's a lot healthier than he's ever been," John confirmed, "His brother gave me his medical records, so it's working. Every now and then I get him to take a bath with me and add some ingredients to the water that will help. He usually falls asleep in there as well."

"Too much information…" Geoff waved a hand and they laughed at his not-entirely-faked tone of panic.

"Still here, Lestrade?" Sherlock whirled through the door, and they laughed harder, even as John tilted his head back for his lovers kiss.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	11. Chapter 11

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Egg Hunt**

AN – Madness! Dribbling, babbling, madness! (Set after Playing with Fire)

It wasn't often that people came to Baker Street to consult the Mage, but now that Dimmock and her husband knew where John lived, Sherlock supposed he should have expected something like this to happen, which is how he and Lestrade came to be involved in one of the weirdest egg hunts he'd ever heard of.

The witch and wizard had arrived not long after Lestrade – yet another of his and John's weekly 'night at the pub' – and had taken John into the kitchen with urgent looks on their faces. Words like 'spawning cycle', 'largest I've ever seen,' 'egg clusters', 'catastrophe', 'destroy all life in London in a week' were bandied about and John had come out of the kitchen looking grim.

"We're going too," Sherlock had insisted and Geoff had braced himself for the mother of all rows – because this sounded like it was exactly the sort of situation that required the mage to leave his lover behind and that had not gone over well the last time. John had hesitated and glanced at Geoff, who gave his best 'determined to come along' mulish look, and then gave in. He'd insisted on them both wearing protection and following instructions, which Sherlock had shockingly agreed to without any argument at all and they had all bundled into Dimmock's Nissan Micra – Sherlock's knees had been around his ears – and headed out to a derelict factory in Dagenham.

Once there, John had pulled out a sharpie and insisted on drawing Runes on the back of Sherlock and Geoff's hands and forehead. He'd added a dab of blood from his thumb to each of the forehead Runes and then told everyone that it was their job to destroy the eggs, while he dealt with the thing that was laying them. Mrs Dimmock had issued them with buckets and paintbrushes made out of straw, instructed them in the Rune they were to paint on the surface of each egg they discovered and then everyone had followed John into the factory.

He'd gone up to the top floor to deal with whatever was sliding-scraping-squelching around up there and the rest of them had split up to deal with the faintly luminescent eggs that clung in clusters to every surface. They were giving off a particularly vile odour as they sat their glowing, and once the Rune was painted on them and they started to dissolve the smell did not improve _at all_. Had Geoff been one for bemoaning his fate, he'd definitely have been complaining that this had not been in his plans for Friday night: running around with a witch, wizard and fellow protectorate, graffitied with Runes that were definitely tingling now and giving off a purple-ish glow, painting eggs that had nothing to do with Easter and smelled vile with a homemade paintbrush and something that looked a bit like rotten milk. Luckily there were only a few intact clusters of eggs left, so his patience wasn't being stretched to the _absolute_ limit _yet_.

The noises upstairs were definitely reaching a crescendo of sorts, which made concentrating difficult. There was dust and other small debris falling from the ceiling now as the action heated up and Geoff noticed a marked increase in the tingling feeling his Runes were giving off. At the same time, Sherlock shouted in wordless alarm and the cluster of eggs that Geoff had been heading for began to _glow_. Dimmock and Dimmock yelped and bolted towards Sherlock and Geoff and some instinct prompted the protectorates to grab the young DI and his missus, standing behind them and locking their hands around their respective middles.

"Sir, let go," Dimmock struggled in Geoff's grip, but he tensed his arms and refused. Moments later there was a green pulse of light from each egg cluster washing over all four of them, leaving them unharmed even though Dimmock and Dimmock yelped and tried to duck.

"The Runes are protecting us all!" Alice Dimmock sounded astonished.

"Can you cast through the spell without destroying it?" Geoff replied even as Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'no shit'.

The witch and wizard tested this idea cautiously, and when John's protection held they began casting vigorously, taking the simple yet messy solution to their problem of exploding the now furiously buzzing and pulsing egg clusters with destructive bolts of magic. Sherlock was interested – and vaguely put off – to discover that Alice Dimmock smelled like cinnamon and baking bread when she cast.

The noise above them became ear-splitting and for a moment, Geoff swore the ceiling _bowed_ sharply, as if it had been hit by a very great weight from a very great height, and then everything went quiet. The egg clusters were gone from where they stood and Geoff and Sherlock cautiously let go of their unwitting partners. Footsteps on the stairs announced John's return from his battle and something in the darkness skittered on too many legs away from them. Before the witch or wizard could react a bolt of purple flame sizzled across the space and hit whatever it was, causing it to shriek in agony even as it burnt to ashes. Geoff had only a glimpse of it and was pleased not to see more clearly.

"I hate it when you do that," Sherlock complained as John came into view, looking very pale with dark smudges under his eyes.

"Did you get all of the eggs?" John asked, ignoring his partner's complaint. Geoff noticed the Rune on Sherlock's forehead was gone: a glance at the backs of his own hands showed that those Runes had also faded away.

"We think so," DI Dimmock replied, "We'll do another sweep to be sure, sir."

John nodded and let Sherlock gather him close, leaning with a sigh against his lovers side. Sherlock's hair was wilder than ever and even Geoff felt a little dishevelled with the activities of the last hour. He pulled his phone out and called for a cab, making arrangements to meet a couple of blocks down.

"Call the Chinese place, too," Sherlock instructed, "We can pick up the order on the way back to Baker Street."

"Not the night out that we had planned, Geoff," John grinned in a tired fashion. Geoff grinned back.

"You do take me to interesting places," he replied, "I'll see you at work Dimmock."

The three men fell into step and began to bicker over precisely what should be in their dinner order.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	12. Chapter 12

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Devoted Pets 3**

AN - set immediately after 'Playing With Fire'

Geoff went back to the crime scene, unable to stay at Baker Street to keep Sherlock in one piece. He hoped he'd never witness another argument like that again – John had been just as devastated as Sherlock but was more accustomed to functioning when in the grip of high emotions. He'd check on Sherlock in the morning and see what he could do to help him find John.

Donovan was standing on the edge of the space where Moriarty's body rested, looking rather pensive. Geoff noticed the tang of magic in the air – specifically the tang of _John's_ magic – and wondered if that was what was unsettling her. Anderson was walking around the body carefully, taking pictures and speaking in a clipped voice to his team, directing the collection of evidence and samples. The man was a cheater and a pain in the arse, but he'd certainly lifted his game in the last few years, mostly as a result of Sherlock's little barbs and attacks. That was the main reason that Geoff hadn't attempted to curb Sherlock when he berated the forensic scientist – professional pride could be useful, and wounded professional pride was a great motivator.

Geoff moved carefully into the room, aware of eyes on him as he approached the body of London's greatest criminal. There was a gun on the far side of the room, which was being documented closely before collection, and Geoff was certain that it would prove to be the murder weapon.

"Any surprises?" he asked Anderson, squatting to look at the man that had so terrified Sherlock. In death he seemed small and oddly powerless.

"Not so far. He was shot – from the position of the body it appears he was being restrained while the gun was pointed at him. No fibres or anything on his clothing or the surrounding space that indicates who his attackers were, so it looks as if they were careful… possibly professionals," Anderson grunted as he got down to Lestrade's level, "If you look closely you can see scars from plastic surgery – probably as a result of injuries incurred at the pool that pest Holmes blew up last year."

"Mmm," Geoff nodded, "Well, take your time. I don't want anything missed."

He got up and walked back to Donovan, who was directing the officers outside to maintain the media cordon. How they'd gotten hold of the story already was beyond Geoff – he really hoped it wasn't because there was a snitch in his team.

"I want this scene kept secure, Donovan," Geoff instructed her firmly, "I'm going to walk the perimeter outside, see if I can get a feel for where the perpetrators entered or exited."

And perhaps make sure that John hadn't left behind anything that would identify him, though Geoff was fairly certain he hadn't.

The building was covered in graffiti and bill posters, but all the doors and windows were intact. There was the main entrance and the loading bay, which were unlocked and hanging open in the wind, but the SOCO's were already documenting those. Once more, Geoff felt there were eyes on him as he moved about the perimeter, but when he glanced around he couldn't spot anyone. There was a Pet nearby – one that seemed to be interested in saying hello at least.

A fleeting shadow marked a wall and there was a sudden brush of air against his leg. Geoff grinned and held his palm flat to the ground, standing still for a moment. Fur brushed his palm lightly, although there was nothing to be seen and he thought there was a distinct rumble which most people would put down to traffic or something.

"Hello," he muttered and tensed as Donovan shouted from the head of the alley way. In a flash the presence was gone.

"Boss! We've got someone here to see you!"

Geoff sighed and jogged towards her, waving the radio he held in his hand. It was behaviour like this – and the way she was carrying on with Anderson – that was keeping her career back.

"You could have called me on the radio, Sergent," Geoff chided her, "We're professionals – there's no need to shout at each other."

"He insisted on not using the radio – some toff from the Home Office," Sally's face took a distinctly bitter cast. They'd all had cases pulled out from under them by the Home Office in the past – it never got any easier to swallow. Geoff sighed and followed his sergeant to the rear of the crime scene, getting into the black non-descript car that positively screamed for attention.

As he settled into the leather seat, there was a distinct brush around his shoulders, which cheered him up. It looked like the Pet, which he was guessing had been attracted by the magic at the crime scene, had decided to stick with him for a while. Then he got a look at the man sitting in the car and his heart sank. He began to wonder if Sally had misheard the word 'Holmes'. Maybe it was the curly hair cut short and ruthlessly contained, or maybe it was the way he looked down his nose at Geoff – something that Sherlock had not done in a few months now – but Geoff really didn't like Sherlock's older brother.

"Mr Holmes?" Geoff enjoyed the slightly surprised flicker in the other man's eyes and crossed his legs, "You wanted to see me?"

"Is Moriarty dead?" Mr Holmes asked, though he didn't bother to acknowledge Geoff's greeting – such things were probably beneath him or something.

"Yes, John did a thorough job of it," Geoff nodded and couldn't resist adding the next part, "He should be in the clear – there is very little physically evidence left in there apart from the dead body itself and the murder weapon."

Not that Mycroft Holmes – really what had their parents been thinking to saddle their children with such names – cared if John Watson was done for murder. He barely tolerated the man's presence in Sherlock's life. Just as he clearly had no time for Detective Inspectors who worked closely with his brother either if his tone and expression were anything to go by.

"Then I shall seek Dr Watson out on Sherlock's behalf. He's beside himself. I wonder that you could leave him when he so obviously needed supervision," Mr Holmes sneered and there was a warning growl from behind Geoff. The other man looked startled and Geoff pretended not to have noticed. He knew how much Mr Holmes hated magic and all its trappings.

"I'd have gone to check on him," Geoff replied calmly, "Sometimes its best to give Sherlock his space."

He'd learnt that the hard way – and it was less true since John Watson had come on the scene. Mr Holmes looked vastly unimpressed and unconvinced by Geoff's hard won knowledge, but he didn't let it put him off. After all, he almost never saw the man and had no interest in getting to know Sherlock Holmes' older brother. The younger one was enough to be going on with, thanks.

"I'll get back to work, then," Geoff stated and let himself out of the car, pausing until he felt the Pet in there brush his leg. He watched the car drive away and then turned back to the scene, making a mental note to text the inhabitants of Baker Street before dropping by tomorrow.

"Come on, then," Geoff muttered to thin air and headed into the building.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	13. Chapter 13

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Love and Care**

**AN –** once more at the request of Mattsloved1. Hope it meets requirements, hon! Set WAY WAY WAY into the future (our boys have grown into grumpy old men). Retirement!fic.

Sherlock had been clean for two years before he realised the damage he'd done with the drugs. Not to his skin or his mind – though he wasn't sure he'd have noticed the latter – but to his heart. He sometimes found it difficult to catch his breath; on occasion his heart rate was faster than it should have been.

He didn't bother to tell Mycroft. The barrage of tests and doctors and procedures that were sure to follow would only confirm his own diagnosis. The drugs had done more damage than they'd realised and Sherlock had no intention of curtailing his lifestyle to prolong his presence on the planet. Besides, he'd never really imagined he'd live to old age anyway.

Then he met a doctor who needed a place to live. He was never sure if John had noticed that Sherlock's heart beat too quickly sometimes, but if he did the doctor made no mention of it. John certainly didn't try to stop him from doing what he wanted to do – unless it fell into John's sometimes inexplicable category of 'too dangerous'. John quickly became his first – and only – friend, then his partner in the agency and then his lover. Sherlock had never expected to have a proper lover – he'd had sex with people before but it had never been accompanied by the depth of feeling that John evoked. Having a lover was unexpected but also a delight – especially as it was John. John made difficult things easy in a way that Sherlock had never realised was possible.

Then he discovered that John was a Mage and instead of being angry that his lover had kept a secret from him, Sherlock had been thrilled – there was more to the universe to discover than he'd originally thought, and that was just brilliant. In fact, if anything would have tempted him to confide his health concerns to John, the knowledge that he still needed to learn everything he could about the hidden world of magic would be it.

Once Sherlock knew, John apparently relaxed some of his vigilance around the house. Sherlock became accustomed to finding odd ingredients around the place and hearing odd noises from the box room upstairs. John started using poultices on Sherlock's various scrapes and bruises, which had the side effect of sending Sherlock to sleep. Once they'd come to an arrangement about when it was permissible to make Sherlock sleep while they were on a case, he didn't object to being healed this way. John had been quiet on the subject of the poultices side effects, so Sherlock assumed going to sleep was normal. He secretly enjoyed the time spent with John – he'd never been one for overt displays of affection, but cuddling with his lover had proved to be rather addictive under certain circumstances.

They didn't send Lestrade to sleep. The first time the DI had been given a poultice it had been after a mundane suspect had attempted to break the DI's wrist by slamming it repeatedly against a metal rail. John had insisted on Lestrade coming to Baker Street for treatment and the DI had sat in one of their armchairs, discussing the footy with John while the poultice did its work. When Sherlock had asked why Lestrade didn't fall asleep afterwards, John had muttered something about 'different tolerances in Mundanes', which was plausible.

Two months after discovering John was a Mage, Sherlock also discovered the delight of taking a bath with his lover. John would insist on snugging Sherlock up to his chest and massaging his muscles gently. John's bath scent of choice smelt very much like cinnamon toast and coffee on a cold, clear morning and Sherlock always found himself inclined to drowse through the bath, his head resting on John's shoulder. John never seemed to mind.

As time passed, Sherlock found that he got less drowsy when John used a poultice on him; though bathing with his lover almost always sent him almost to sleep. In fact when they'd retired from Baker Street to Sussex, John's primary concern about their hidden cottage was that the bath was big enough for two to get in comfortably. Sherlock had been more interested in having enough land to put his bee hives on and how good John's poultices were at soothing bee stings. Not very, it turned out, but John made him a salve instead that worked much better. The bees rarely stung Sherlock now, and John had turned out to have an unexpectedly sweet tooth when it came to fresh honey.

"Sherlock!" John's voice hadn't gotten any weaker with age, "Come on!"

"Yes, pet!" Sherlock called back, mainly because he could and it would stir John up. Sure enough his lover was standing in the open front door, sunlight highlighting his white hair. John was still fit and trim, though his left shoulder drooped a little more than the right one and pained him more often than not too. Sherlock had discovered that a light massage with another of John's salves worked wonders in the evening and did so religiously. Another advantage to their country retreat was that the bees needed plants to harvest from and John had turned his garden into the best collection of healing herbs and other such plants in all of the UK.

"Give it up, Sherlock," Geoff called from the front path, "You know he'll just make you pay."

Geoff was one of the few people who knew where they lived – he came to visit at least once a month. He had aged well, if Sherlock was honest, though he needed a cane to walk – a present from his last case for Scotland Yard. Not even John's poultices had managed to correct all the damage.

"Why did I agree to this again?" Sherlock asked in a testy voice, though he could see his lover was not taken in.

"Because you insisted on tutoring the boy personally for the last three years and his family are correct in their belief that he wouldn't have graduated from University without you," John muttered, "And because I need to collect the poultice I gave Mrs Sheldon to use on her arthritis – it needs renewing."

"Does he still fall asleep when you use a poultice on him?" Geoff asked John as Sherlock locked their front door. Hidden away or not, they had more than enough enemies still in the world, not to mention there were a few up-and-comers that would like to make their name taking out Holmes and Watson.

"No," John beamed, "He does not."

Geoff also beamed; a very odd reaction and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friends, sensing a conspiracy. Lestrade made the clueless face that had so irritated Sherlock when it appeared at crime scenes and John raised an eyebrow at him.

"It wasn't normal to fall asleep!" Sherlock announced, "I knew it! Why didn't you tell me, John? You know I hate to be kept in the dark!"

He was scolding, he knew it, but he was also furious. He had always hated the limits placed on his knowledge – John knew that.

"Did you know that you should have died of heart failure by now?" Lestrade butted in sharply, protecting John from Sherlock's temper as of old. Sherlock sucked in a startled breath: how had he failed to notice that John had diagnosed his hearts condition?

"Actually, yes," he replied, not liking the shock on John's face when he admitted to it. His heart hadn't raced for years, or at least when it had there had been good reason for it. Sherlock had suspected that he'd been mistaken in his self-diagnosis, but had never been sure, "I had some occasions of arrhythmia when I was younger – I thought it might have been caused by my drug abuse."

"It was," John sighed. His expression spoke of pained worry, hidden away for years lest Sherlock notice and have a heart attack just to spite them both, "I saw it when we first started living together. After Geoff and his drugs busts I assumed that you knew and were resigned to the damage. The poultices put you to sleep because they were working on such a deep level…"

"So were the baths," Sherlock realised, "All these years, you've been correcting the damage without telling me. You've healed a broken heart – one that most people said I didn't even have."

He looked down at his lover, who met his gaze steadily. John was an old man, now, they both were. The fact that Sherlock was here to see it was down to his lover sensing what he needed and providing it without fuss or drama: exactly as Sherlock would have wanted it, had he been asked.

The enormity of John's love made his heart race – an irony that did not escape Sherlock now.

"I'm here today only because of you," Sherlock murmured, awe tinging his voice. He'd never been so astonished in his life – and that it was John Watson astonishing him only added to the sensation. After a lifetime together, John could _still_ surprise his lover.

"John Watson… there are no words for who you are to me…" Sherlock breathed and drew his love into a strong embrace.

"I'll let them know you'll be a bit late," Geoff's voice barely registered and Sherlock recollected himself enough to nod. He buried his face in John's hair for a moment, relishing his partners scent and warmth. John was clinging to him tightly, one hand pressed over the heart in question.

It was a possessive touch, but Sherlock didn't resent it. After all, John had won his heart decades ago.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	14. Chapter 14

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Brotherly Concern (Or why Mycroft hates Magic)**

If it hadn't been raining hard enough to wash the markings off the road, Sherlock would never have agreed to get into the car. Mycroft was a pain at the best of times, but the last thing Sherlock needed today was to be lectured by his brother on his latest refusal to take his latest case. It was boring anyway, no matter how important Mycroft thought the missing politician might be.

Sherlock had turned ignoring his brother into a fine art, which meant he was looking out of the car window when the bolt of lightning struck the car without warning. Eyes stinging from the flash, Sherlock threw his arms up to protect his face, vaguely aware of the dark shapes flying at the car and the shout of the driver as his door burst open. Sherlock had a fist in Mycroft's jacket and his brother on the floor in seconds, where they both crouched, waiting for the next attack.

"The wheels have been ripped off," Mycroft reported after a moment, "And we're in a 'black spot' for the CCTV – the driver is unconscious on the ground aproximately seven feet away and the car appears to be floating."

Sherlock blinked hard, forcing the after images away and sighed, reaching for his brothers arm again. He could feel Magic crawling malevolently all over the vehicle and didn't want his brother contaminated with it. His touch would extend the protection that John had woven into his coat – literally woven, a fascintating process that Sherlock had been allowed to watch – to his brother.

"Don't touch the metal," Sherlock warned Mycroft, "John will be here soon."

He knew that because he could feel it – his Mage was headed their way. How he could tell that John was coming was not something that could be explained or quantified in any coherent fashion. Sherlock had never even been tempted to try.

"This is why I hate Magic," Mycroft muttered, "It's ridiculous – there is no policing of it, and very little that can be done to confine the chaos it causes."

Sherlock shot his brother an impatient look, rolling his eyes. John policed the community very effectively – he just wasn't dictatorial about it, which was what Mycroft would doubtless have preferred. The magical community was a big believer in self discipline – relying on its members to know right from wrong and apply a certain standard to their conduct. The Mage only got involved when that failed.

"I'm telling you, Sherlock – you don't understand the full dangers that are facing you," Mycroft continued, "Three days ago I had to process permission for the burial of one of our top scientific minds. A man who was truly brilliant and would have contributed great advances to our world, had he only been given the chance. Instead, he and three others have spent the last twenty years in a government run hospice, drooling and babbling like infants. They're lucky to be able to speak coherently once a day, let alone hold an intelligent discussion with a five year old."

The condition of the three men in question was not news to Sherlock. He approved of it whole heartedly – in fact, he thought they'd gotten off lightly.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, sickened to hear his brother defend the men that had hurt John's family and therefore John, "You're talking about three scientists that kidnapped three people and experimented on them. You're talking about a man that administered a slew of drugs to a teenage girl and burnt her magic out of her. Harry Watson is an alcoholic to this day because of that man."

"He was brilliant, Sherlock – as brilliant as you. What will happen on the day that you discover something about this world of John Watson's that he doesn't want you to know? What will he do to your brilliant mind then?" Mycroft insisted and Sherlock was strongly tempted to let go of his brother and leave him to the magic that was even now sparkling and crackling aroudn the frame of the car they were trapped in.

"John loves me, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, tired of trying to make his brother see that the Mage was not a threat, "He'd never hurt me. No matter what I had discovered."

Mycroft did not look convinced. In fact he looked as if he was going to argue the point further. Sherlock gave him a warning look and flexed his fingers – it didn't take a genius to understand his threat to withdraw John's protection from his brother.

"Sherlock!" the man in question shouted from outside the car, "Hold on!"

Sherlock braced his long limbs as best he could and the car shuddered. Mycroft squawked in a very undignified fashion as he struggled to stay still in the turbulance. Sherlock didn't bother to hide his amusement.

The car fell to the ground with a very uncomfortable thud and the door nearest Mycroft popped open.

"Don't touch the metal," John's voice ordered and Mycroft wriggled out of the car with almost no dignity at all. He refused John's offer of a helping hand and stalked off to one side looking like a ruffled cat. Sherlock smirked and flung his long legs out, catching John's hands and standing into a thorough hug, accepting John's kiss happily. Behind them, the car still sparked occasionally, as if it was releasing the last of the magic contained in the frame.

"Alright?" John asked when they broke for breath. Sherlock nodded and John turned to look at Mycroft.

"Are you hurt, Mycroft?" the Mage asked and the British Government shook his head, wariness shining in his eyes.

"Bruises only. What have you done to my driver?"

Sherlock turned to look at where his brother was pointing and gaped. The driver was frozen in mid-step, a piece of packing crate held aloft in one hand like a club. John turned to look too, sighing in resignation.

"I'll let him go, but if he hits me all bets are off, Mycroft, so stand him down," John warned and made a complicated signal with his left hand. The driver stumbled forward two steps and then dropped his club at Mycroft's barked order.

"You'd best secure transport," Mycroft decided at length, sending the other man away with a flick of his hand. Once the confused driver was out of sight he turned to look at John.

"I assume you can explain what has happened?" Mycroft demanded, and John shook his head. Sherlock's lover was amused beneath his concern for them, an unusual reaction. Normally if there was a magical malfunction near Sherlock, John was a lot more worried and protective.

"You ran over a minor demon," John replied, "It wouldn't have been very big, nor very strong. The car killed it, and the discharge of its magic killed the car. You were caught in the backlash. I'll come back later and have a look around to see if I can find where it came from."

"Can I come too?" Sherlock asked eagerly. He'd been after John to let him see more magical creatures ever since Lestrade had gotten a Pet. John considered it, despite Mycroft's bristling disapproval in the corner.

"We'll see," John promised. Sherlock pouted and was kissed soundly for it. He smirked as they broke for air – that was one of John's many 'management' techniques that Sherlock didn't mind.

"We'll be off then," Sherlock announced, "I'd say 'nice to see you, Mycroft' only it wasn't. Do try to teach your drivers to watch where they're going."

Mycroft spluttered, which was an excellent reaction as far as Sherlock was concerned and John shook his head. He slipped an hand into Sherlock's coat pocket as they left his brother behind, though, twining their fingers together.

"Home, I think," John mused, "I have some supplies to collect and a partner to shag."

"Excellent," Sherlock approved.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	15. Chapter 15

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Obedience Training for DI's**

AN – Set only a week after Geoff gets his second Pet.

Unlike the first Pet, Geoff noticed almost immediately that his new invisible shadow was a lot more… present in his life. Before, his Pet had come and gone, wandering in and out of his life at will. Geoff was sometimes uncertain if it was even the same Pet at times and as he couldn't ask John without making Sherlock sulk, he wasn't exactly in a position to ask.

His new Pet was an entirely different story. That first afternoon, it had brushed deliberately against Geoff as often as possible and had then taken offence at Mycroft Holmes' tone and growled at the man. As if that wasn't enough, it had also taken a strong dislike to Sally Donovan at the crime scene: Geoff suspected it had tripped her up after she'd annoyed him with some snide remarks about Sherlock being responsible for the body they were dealing with now.

The Pet had followed him home, agreeing to listen to BBC1 on the way, and Geoff had the sense that it had ushered the children up to bed with him. It had sat on his foot while he and the missus watched telly, but thankfully hadn't followed them to bed.

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes phone was sitting on Geoff's desk, as were all the pens from Sally's desk, including the engraved one that she'd gotten from her parents on her twenty first birthday. It was like owning a cat that left you mice; only in this case the mice belonged to someone else, one of which could make you redundant. It wasn't hard to give Sally's pens back before she noticed, but the phone was another matter entirely. In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands as a rather beautiful, shapely, well dressed, but cold woman turned up and took the phone from him without a word, though her glance was decidedly withering.

Sally's pens migrated back to his office, along with her stapler, hole punch and various other office supplies three times that day – although always when Geoff was demonstrably out of the office and therefore not responsible. Sally treated the office to an amusing rant about infantile practical jokes at the end of shift and stomped off in a huff to retrieve her personal coffee cup before leaving for the night.

Geoff had a quiet conversation in the car about respecting other people's belongings, even if they were annoying or rude and hoped that would do the trick. His Pet had grumbled under the noise from the radio – but seemed accepting of the idea if the brush against his arm was anything to go by.

The morning after that Mycroft's phone, Sally's phone and Anderson's coffee mug were all on his desk, as were three different warrant cards. Geoff growled in frustration, texted John quickly, thought about it and let Sherlock know as well and then returned the phone and coffee cup to its rightful place.

The warrant cards were another matter and he had a quick look at the records of the owners as well as checking into their movements last night, which was how he came to discover three officers who were operating an illegal betting office in their time off. He spent most of the day sorting that out, which meant he missed Mycroft's assistant (and her glare, so it wasn't a complete tragedy) and John's quick visit (which was a lot more important).

In the end he had to go to Baker Street and John came down to the car, glancing at the Pet in the back seat before shrugging.

"I can't help mate," the Mage of London sounded apologetic, but the effect was ruined by the gleeful flatmate in the window above him, making encouraging signs to Geoff's invisible passenger, "If Mycroft has made an enemy of your Pet, there's not a lot that can be done. Continue to admonish it for taking his phone. If he came and apologised that might appease it, but the odds of that are unlikely. Sherlock texted him to advise that he do so, but you know those two – if one says duck the other will jump up and down."

"Alright," Geoff sighed, "The problem is that it seems to want to help – it brought my attention to three bent coppers today."

"Praise it for that," John recommended, "I'll see what I can do about Mycroft."

Geoff did praise his Pet on the way home, which resulted in some very satisfied purrs. Telling it to let Mycroft alone resulted in a grumble, which meant 'no' according to what Geoff had figured out.

Mycroft held out for a week, which was pretty impressive really. The phone was a constant on Geoff's desk in the morning, although sometimes his umbrella was there as well. Geoff got pretty good at avoiding the assistant – if he was in his office his Pet would grumble a warning and he'd duck out quickly. He had no desire to be glared at, and as Mycroft wasn't trying to get him fired it was apparent that John and Sherlock had at least made it clear what the problem was.

Seeing the dapper man, sans phone and umbrella, in his doorway was a surprise. His Pet was here – it was under his desk, leaning on his shins while he reviewed the morning report – but hadn't seen fit to warn him.

"I believe you have found my phone," Mycroft said for the benefit of Donovan and Anderson, who were earwigging shamelessly to find out who the posh visitor was. Mycroft stepped inside and shut the door, a small look of distaste on his otherwise impassive face. He wasn't happy to be here, but as Pet was calling the shots on this matter, he had no choice. That didn't mean it was going to be a public apology, obviously.

"As for the offence I caused the last time we met, I would like to take this opportunity to apologise," he continued and held out his hand. Geoff stood up and shook it, then passed the phone over politely. His Pet purred, which Geoff took as a good sign.

"Thank you," Geoff replied, though he didn't specify to whom he was speaking, "Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft looked like he was holding onto his temper, so Geoff held the door for him before anything could undo the moment. As Sherlock Holmes' elder brother walked away, Geoff wondered what had happened to his umbrella.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	16. Chapter 16

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Time Slip 4**

In the cavernous space of the old Victorian era sewers, the growl rang hollowly. If he hadn't already been uneasy, this sound alone would have done the trick. In the wake of the growl, none of the three men moved, though one felt a very persistent tug on his sleeve cuff, leading in the direction of the surface.

"Are you sure about this?" Geoff muttered, "Because Pet is not at all pleased."

"You've seen the weather patterns above the square," Sherlock replied, casting a bright eyed glance his way, "John has been tracking this for a week. Whatever convergence is about to happen, it will happen here, below Mitre Square."

"It's alright, Pet. You'll be able to protect him," the Mage at the centre of their grouping spoke up, addressing empty air beside Geoff, "The Runes I've painted on him won't interfere with that."

There was a grumble of vague discontent and fur pushed persistently against Geoff's fingers, which he rubbed together kindly. This Pet was much more present than his first had been – to the point that his missus had actually asked if he'd been spending more time with the dog squad from the hair on his clothes. He'd given the samples he'd collected to Sherlock – with John's prior permission – as a birthday present. For a horrible moment he'd thought the ecstatic genius was going to actually _hug_ him or something.

It was dark down here and the underground river that had been redirected to flush out this sewer was trickling along with a surly sound. The city used it as a stormwater drain now, which was a relief, but that didn't stop rats and the occasional piece of rubbish from above finding its way down and floating past. They had brought lanterns – old fashioned oil and wick affairs that John had insisted on. Geoff had a torch in his pocket for emergencies – oil and wick was all well and good, but if you dropped the bloody thing it would go out – or set you on fire. His torch was supposed to be shock and water proof: they'd soon see which option was better.

There was a jarring clang and a foul scented wind pushed suddenly along the tunnel, making their lanterns flicker alarmingly and throw up a myriad of confusing shadows. Voices shouted, familiar and yet not, and when things steadied down, John was standing slightly in front of Geoff and Sherlock, arms outstretched.

On the other side of the tunnel, where there hadn't been anyone at all, was another pair of men. One was tall, thin, dark hair slicked back, wearing a black suit in a very old fashioned cut: the other was average height, wearing a frock coat, moustache and military air. He looked like a Victorian version of John Watson and Geoff would have demanded to know about unreported hallucinogens in the area if the new tall man hadn't snapped,

"Careful Watson!"

"I've got it, Holmes," was the short reply. Their voices were the same and Geoff resigned himself to the fact that he was looking at some sort of alternate dimension representation of his two friends. This sort of thing got easier to accept the longer you knew Sherlock and John.

There was another growl, and Geoff felt his Pet press tightly against his legs in response. His eyes refocused and he noticed – how had he missed it – the demon standing in-between John and … John.

It was man shaped, as tall as Sherlock and covered in blood. It held some sort of meat in its hands, which it gobbled up as Geoff watched. Both John's shouted something indistinct, which meant they were casting and Sherlock pulled the cork from his bottle of solution. On the other side of the tunnel, Holmes – because who else would be helping a Victorian version of John Watson hunt demons through the sewers – did the same.

"Watson, we've lost Lestrade," Holmes called, his voice sounding tense. Geoff narrowed his eyes at the other man. Typical – even in the past, Sherlock Holmes had been dragging Geoff Lestrade along and then abandoning him as the whim struck. Geoff hoped that his counterpart was not permanently lost…

"**We** haven't," Sherlock called back sharply, jerking his head at Geoff, who lifted the containment vessel that John had charged him to keep ready in salute. Holmes looked proper astonished for a moment, and then the two Mages in the middle started chanting again, mirroring each others movements in eerie synch.

John had drilled them in what they needed to do, and so Geoff made sure that he paid very careful attention to what was being said and what gestures were being made. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a strip of cloth bound around the Victorian Holmes' hand, a Rune stitched very carefully onto it. He wondered if it would create a paradox to slip the other Watson a sharpie – the Runes were easier to put on and usually wore off by the end of whatever magic the Mage was performing. Geoff had wondered if the absorbed Runes would have a cumulative affect, but put that thought aside for another time.

Both Watson's had set fire to their blood again, each from a cut on their right hand. The resulting flames were an icy blue, which burnt so coldly that the temperature in the tunnel took an abrupt nose dive for the worst. Geoff understood the need for the lanterns now – they provided a very valuable source of heat as well as light. His Pet was pressed tightly to his legs now, growling a steady defiance at the demon in the centre of the magical web the two Mages were forming with their blood-fire. It was an inexplicable comfort to him – to know that there was something there that cared about him and wanted to keep him safe. Although John took the safety of those he protected seriously, Sherlock would always come first with the Mage of London, which was just as it should be.

Sherlock straightened from where he stood and unscrewed the lid of the wide mouthed jar he held, holding it poised for a moment before twirling his wrist and throwing the contents – herbs and other such ingredients – into the blue fire with a dexterous twist. The trapped demon shrieked and the two Mages stepped up their chanting: turning their fire into chains that bound the demon in place. Wind whipped up once more, a whirling vortex that centred on the captive and Geoff tensed: his hands ready to unstop the earthen vessel he held.

"Now, Lestrade!" Holmes called from the other side of the tunnel, Sherlock's voice echoing the call mere seconds later. Geoff pulled the cork – a real cork, old and marred with soot and crumbling red wax – from the neck of the vessel. At his feet, his Pet snarled, pressing harder against him. Sherlock slipped around behind him, passing long arms underneath Geoff's to steady him as the vessel bucked and the now screaming demon was sucked into it, chains and all. The instant the last of the cold chains rattled into the vessel, Geoff shoved the cork back in, securing it with a firm smack of his fist.

There was a shocking moment of quiet and then his Pet purred, rubbing against his legs in approval and pride.

"I agree, Inspector," Watson from the past spoke up, "Very well done indeed."

"Congratulations, Lestrade. You've just caught Jack the Ripper," Holmes from the past added, moving to take his own Mage in his arms, even as Sherlock was doing now.

"Thanks," Geoff nodded with all the sangfroid he could muster, trying to look as if he did this all the time, "Do me a favour and find _your_ Inspector Lestrade please."

"Of course," Watson agreed as they melted away, the tunnel growing darker as the ghosts? Inter-dimensional travellers? faded back into the past. Geoff looked down at the frost covered container in his hands and shivered.

"Jack the Ripper… so that was Catherine Eddowes flesh it was eating. She's popularly considered to be the last confirmed victim of the Ripper," he mused, shaking his head, "You two take me to some interesting sights."

"You know how I hate to be bored," Sherlock replied, rare humour glittering in his eyes and Geoff barked a laugh. It was out of place and irreverent, but then again so were the two men standing spoon like opposite him.

"Come on, we've got work to do if we're to seal that container for all time and bury it properly," John stirred out of Sherlock's arms, "How do you feel about a trip to Stonehenge, Geoff?"

"Why not? It will give you time to explain how it was that the past and present are apparently a mirror of each other," Geoff replied while his Pet chuffed agreement.

**AN **– In the Jack the Ripper accumulated information available on the web, there are only five victims that everyone can agree on as Jack the Rippers definite work. (Known as Canonical Victims). Catherine Eddowes was the fifth and final victim that everyone accepts as the Rippers work. The Ripper disappeared without a trace and was active at the same time as ACD's Sherlock Holmes. This is a 'what if' scenario that popped into my mind as to why the Ripper was never publicly chased by Sherlock Holmes and why he disappeared so suddenly…

**End**** (for now…)**

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	17. Chapter 17

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Mycroft's Missing Umbrella**

Sherlock stopped so abruptly that John, who was still half asleep and therefore not at his best, cannoned right into him.

"_Sherlock!_ A little warning next time please," John mumbled and pressed against Sherlock's back to see around him, "What's wrong?"

"That's Mycroft's umbrella," Sherlock stated, staring at said object where it was lying across the sink. He peeled John off him, reluctantly because it was _John_ and Sherlock liked it when John was touching him, leaning his partner considerately on the doorjamb and whisking around the flat, examining the floors, windows and doors.

"Everything is exactly as it should be – no one has entered the flat – there's not a trace…" Sherlock muttered, running his hands through his hair in distress. This was a nightmare – if just _anyone_ could walk in and out of the flat undetected at any time they liked then how could he keep John _safe_ from all the people that had reason to hurt them. Sherlock had some pretty serious enemies, Moriarty aside, and all of them would love to hurt John, just for the mere sport of it… and Mrs Hudson had no defence against them either, though Sherlock had put electronic countermeasures in her flat to keep her safe, but what if they'd failed too…

He cannoned into a sturdy object and warm hands wrapped around his wrists, tugging them gently away from where they'd been tearing at his hair. John's warmth and scent enveloped him and a strong hand pushed his head onto John's good shoulder. Sherlock became aware that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Warm hands rubbed his back and stroked through his curls and he obediently fell into a calmer breathing pattern, knowing that if he didn't he'd be a) no use to them and b) sedated by his lover the doctor.

"It's alright Sherlock, I know how the umbrella got there," John said after a long peaceful moment, speaking at just the right time: when Sherlock was calm enough to listen but just beginning to bring his brain back up to speed. His lover let Sherlock lean away, though not enough to completely break the embrace. Sherlock didn't need to ask how John knew because his lover was a good man and knew Sherlock in and out.

"Lestrade's Pet was here. Do you remember me going down to talk to Geoff and the Pet in his car about stealing Mycroft's things? And then last week there was the incident with Mycroft's car – Geoff came by to consult you over a case while we were looking at the alley for the demon's access point and you explained very gleefully about the demon that got run over and how rude Mycroft had been…" here John stopped, waiting for Sherlock to put the rest together, faith in his lover evident on his face.

"The Pet was with us at the time," Sherlock recalled the growl at the mention of Mycroft's name, "It's been stealing Mycroft's phone because he was rude to Lestrade at the Moriarty crime scene and you said that Mycroft had to apologise for the theft to stop… so now it's going to make him apologise to you as well?"

"Probably not," John grinned and let go, which Sherlock was partially disappointed about, "It's just making a point, now."

"I'll text him the location of the umbrella then," Sherlock decided and didn't add that he'd be telling his brother an apology was required to John as well. John might brush off Mycroft's attitude, but Sherlock would not. His brother was all too ready to climb on his high horse when it came to John Watson.

John made them tea and went about his morning routine as if Mycroft's umbrella had never appeared in the flat that morning and Sherlock had – for lack of a more dignified phrase – freaked out. Toast was made and consumed with jam, showers were taken and the dishes done from last night. Mycroft arrived, with his phone, which meant he'd been past the Yard first, just as the first drops of rain began to fall outside.

Sherlock's brother did not look amused, an excellent outcome as far as Sherlock was considered. He stood very stiffly in their front room and apologised to John for any offence he'd caused at their last meeting, which John accepted with grace – Sherlock could tell he was surprised, but Mycroft wouldn't have noticed because it was so subtle as to be almost invisible – and handed the umbrella back. Mycroft took his leave of them stiffly and positively _stalked_ out of the flat.

John muffled a snicker of laughter and towed Sherlock over to the window where it was now positively teeming down with rain. The front door opened and Mycroft stepped out, unfurling his umbrella with a practiced flick of his wrist.

Sherlock didn't bother to muffle the shout of laughter as the rain fell through the punctured membranes of the umbrella, taking a quick photo with his phone at the almost lace-like pattern of teeth marks on display. Lestrade would like that photo – and so would the Pet.

**End**** (for now…)**

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**Wow ****– so many reviews for one little random fic! Thank you all so much for reviewing, and especially to my regulars (you know who you are)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Time Slip 5**

**AN **– Last one for the timeslips? Explanations ensue… also HobNobs to those who figure out when in ACD's cannon this is happening.

Geoff looked up from where he was sitting, watching John apply butterfly strips to a deep cut on his forearm. The sitting room door was rattling loudly and Sherlock came in from the kitchen where he'd been making tea of dubious quality to look at it with curiosity, followed by a glance at John, who was concentrating heavily on Geoff's arm.

The door flung itself open, yet stayed closed at the same time. The room swum before Geoff's eyes and he wondered for a moment if there was something in the poultice and salve that John had used earlier to turn his almost crippling wound into something minor that caused hallucinations. For a moment he had been sure he saw different furniture, a fire in the fireplace and gaslight burning on the walls. Two men entered – the men from the sewers all those months ago – the tall Sherlock look-alike supporting the shorter John look-alike.

"Easy, dear chap," Holmes spoke tenderly, "Almost there."

"Holmes, I'm fine. It's a scratch, honestly. Evans took me by surprise, that's all," Watson sounded tired, pained and mildly exasperated. Geoff realised that the man from their past had torn trousers and a scarf wrapped firmly around one thigh.

"He shot you," the tangle of emotions in that short sentence made even _Sherlock_ squirm uncomfortably; "He could have killed you."

"Fetch my box, there's a good chap, and some hot water," Watson evidently decided ignoring that statement was the better part of valour and pressed Holmes hand between his for a moment. Holmes straightened and then startled, apparently recognising that they were no longer alone – that Geoff was seated in the armchair opposite with _his_ John Watson tending a wound in his arm.

"Still clumsy, Lestrade?" Holmes asked snidely, a vague edge of hysteria in his voice. John glanced up from his crouch sharply, anger on his face.

"He saved Sherlock's _life_," John snapped, "Get hold of yourself man. Your Mage needs his box!"

Holmes blanched even further at the command evident in that short burst of speech and hurried past his younger?older? self in search of said box.

"Don't," Watson from the past warned, "He's… fragile. How are you, Lestrade?"

"Even in the past, you're a worrywart," Geoff grumbled to John, getting a smile from both Watson's in the room, "I'm fine, sir. John's got me just where he wants me."

He didn't mention their arrival at Baker Street, the blinding agony and the panic that he was about to lose his arm, his worry for his Pet – who was still out, hunting the thing that had attacked him – and his fear that this time, John wouldn't be able to pull off a miracle with his cures.

"Good," Watson nodded, "Thank you dear boy," he added as Holmes hurried back to his side, depositing a carved wooden chest on a table that didn't exist in the twenty first century. Geoff shook his head and lifted his arm to be bandaged as the kettle in Sherlock's kitchen whistled. The consulting pest disappeared for a moment, reappearing with two cups of tea in one hand and the still steaming kettle in the other. He put the tea next to Geoff on the floor and then poured the water into the bowl that Watson was taking out of the chest.

There was an odd shimmer to the room for a moment and then the water disappeared from the kettle and reappeared in the bowl. Sherlock gave the Watson in the chair a long look, then smiled gravely and returned to the kitchen with the now empty kettle. John huffed in amusement and finished securing Geoff's bandage.

"Drink your tea, Geoff," John advised, "We'll need to be going out again soon."

"Take care, Watson," Sherlock said from the doorway of the kitchen where he was leaning once more, his own tea in hand.

"And you," Watson replied. John nodded to Holmes, a small smile on his face and Holmes nodded in return, his hand resting on his Watson's shoulder. Geoff grinned as Watson kissed the back of said hand, loving the startled look on Holmes' face: a look that gentled to affection as they faded away.

Once more the front room of 221B Baker Street was as it should be.

"Ok, I have to know," Geoff shook his head, "How is it that the past and the present are overlapping?"

"It's John's fault," Sherlock announced, striding over to sit in the now empty chair opposite Geoff, slanting an affectionate look at the Mage sitting on the floor that was a powerful echo of the one on past-Holmes' face.

"We're… echoes of each other. Distant ancestor's maybe, or maybe it's a crack in the fabric of reality that allows other versions of us to manifest…" John shrugged, "It's not dangerous, if that's what you're worried about."

"Whenever an event occurs that is… I suppose you'd say of extreme importance… in our lives, it's echoed by a similar event in theirs. Emotions run high and the two Mages seem to form a connection of sorts, one that lets them support each other," Sherlock drew John to lean comfortably against his legs, John's head falling naturally against one knee, "We're seeing them – and they're seeing us – at the best and worst times of their lives."

"But not their Lestrade," Geoff frowned, and John reached out a foot to tap against Geoff's in an oddly comforting manner.

"My guess is that their Lestrade doesn't know about Watson being a Mage. Victorian London was a lot more repressed than ours – no matter how much Lestrade is liked, it's unlikely that Watson has included him in the Magic side of their lives."

Geoff considered that for a moment, imagining what it would be like to be held forever at arms length from the madness that was 221B Baker Street. No demons, Magic, Pets or attempts to reshape the physical world. No shenanigans at four in the morning, odd texts, encounters with outrageous criminals, fake drug busts or consulting pests invading his office to review files and 'chat'. Instead, they'd have a professional relationship, dictated by their common cases: only coming in contact with each other when there was a dead body between them. Geoff would never have to worry about defending his family from a threat they couldn't see: would never have to risk life and limb battling against things he didn't understand. He could have lost an arm tonight – or have been crippled for life, unable to work.

"Glad we're not living in that time, then," Geoff grinned at the watchful detective in the chair opposite, pressing the toe of his shoe back against John's.

**End**** (for now…)**

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	19. Chapter 19

**Magic One Shots**** (Sherlock BBC Fic)**

**AN **– this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.

**Warning **– slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.

**Disclaimer** – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Here Be…**

From the interested gleam in Sherlock's eye, Geoff made a mental note to frisk the thin genius for fossils before they left the Natural History Museum. It wasn't often that members of the public got an after hours all access pass to the place, but Geoff had wrangled it based on two things. One – he was a DI in Scotland Yard, supposedly checking the security after some threatening letters with the stated aim of stealing or otherwise harming the new exhibit (Geoff was sure that if it came down to it Sherlock would fabricate some for him); and two – because Pet was in a right taking over _something_ that was being housed here and he wanted Sherlock's husband the Mage to have a shufti at it.

"The new exhibit is over there," Geoff pointed and John stepped around his fascinated spouse, patting the thin man on the shoulder and heading for the gallery that housed the museums latest find.

"You said it was a dinosaur exhibit?" Sherlock rubbed his thin hands together in their black leather gloves with childish enthusiasm. Privately, Geoff imagined that Sherlock's room had been a positive dinosaur shrine at some point, if the glint in the gray eyes was anything to go by.

"Yes, two partial skeletons they dug up near Croydon," Geoff nodded, "One winged specimen and one large land based predator. It's postulated that they were attacking each other and died of the subsequent injuries. The skeletons were apparently tangled together very thoroughly."

"It's an unusual find for England – from what I can recall the museum has been making rather a large fuss about it in the press," Sherlock sniffed, "But what makes you think that John is needed here?"

"Pet is fussing," Geoff shrugged, "It keeps dragging me here, or leaving clippings about the exhibit in odd places. The missus was not happy about the newsprint on her best sheets, let me tell you."

Sherlock snorted but forbore to comment as they stepped into the gallery. It was large and the two skeletons were wired upon stands and suspension cables, with the fake bones that the scientists had used to 'fill in the missing pieces' standing out as an intrusive blue. John was standing beneath the bones, his hands on his hips as he looked up, craning his neck to take everything in.

"Well, now. This is a problem," John's voice echoed slightly in the gallery and Geoff frowned, hurrying forward. Pet tugged on his coat hem to stop him from getting too close and Sherlock stumbled beside him.

"It tripped me!" he exclaimed, as fascinated as always with Geoff's invisible Pet. The thin genius reached out a cautious hand and ran it lightly over space in front of him. There was a faint purr, then weight leaning warmly against Geoff's thigh. He dropped a hand onto Pet's head automatically and rubbed what he thought was an ear, getting a louder purr in response. Pet wouldn't let him get closer though.

"What's the problem?" Geoff asked, resignation settling onto his shoulders at John's tone. John laughed at him and joined them, walking out from under the bones to link his arm through Sherlock's. The consulting genius clearly thought his partner was showing him affection but Geoff suspected that John was actually keeping Sherlock away from the bones too, which made the back of his neck tingle.

"Geoff, from that tone and expression, anyone who didn't know you would think that we were a burden you carried, blighting your life with our shenanigans," John smiled at him, "Just think how bored you'd be if I took you at face value and excluded you from the interesting cases."

"Good thing you know me better," Geoff agreed, "Before you suggest it, I am not leaving: I recognise stalling when I see it."

"That's because I'm going to do something that could be construed by the more mundane world as breaking the law. As the representative of the law, I thought I might spare you the burden of having to conceal that crime," John sighed, "Are you sure you want to know?"

"If I didn't before I do now," Geoff snorted, "There's a very unfortunate glitch in the security system. Something has chewed through some key cables. Whatever it is you need to do, you won't be seen. Now tell me what's going on."

"First of all, that isn't two previously undiscovered dinosaurs," John sighed, shaking his head, "And secondly, it isn't dead."

Sherlock actually made a very confused sounding noise, which salved Geoff's pride as he was sure his mouth was hanging open foolishly.

"It sure looks dead," Geoff ventured and John chuckled, shaking his head.

"It's a very clever spell, but trust me, it isn't dead," the Mage replied, "And we're going to have to get it out of here and back to where it belongs."

"If it's not two dinosaurs, what is it?" Sherlock asked the key question, focussed on the details as usual. John gave them both a secret little smile – his whole demeanour positively screaming that he was about to announce something wicked.

"It's a dragon," the words seemed to echo in the space around them for a moment. Geoff's mind whirled at the possibilities. He'd always wondered if dragons existed – after all there were a lot of dragon myths about the place, not to mention places named for dragons or those that had slain them. He'd assumed that, like dinosaurs, dragons were extinct – living on only in tales.

"I knew it!" Sherlock clapped his hands, bouncing on his toes in animated excitement, "This is brilliant!"

For a moment, Geoff could see the excited nine year old boy that Sherlock had once been: from the expression on John's face, so could the Mage.

"How is it not dead?" Sherlock asked, his hands gripping John's arm, "And what do you mean we have to take it where it belongs?"

"There is a dragon preserve in Wales," John tossed the fact off like it was completely normal to be talking about real live dragons. Geoff envied the man's knowledge sometimes, "This one must have wondered off and not been recaptured. It happens sometimes. The dragon keepers put a spell on their charges to keep them out of the public eye. If a dragon is about to be caught, it turns into a skeleton, buried beneath the earth. Every ten years the keepers do a headcount – if they're missing one, they can cast a locating spell to find and retrieve it. They're about two years off that headcount, which means this fellow has been off the reservation for eight years or so."

"How do you plan to get it back to the preserve?" Geoff asked, looking up at the array of bones, dwarfing them in the large room, "You can't exactly wake it up, stick the thing in a fire proof box and ship it to Wales."

"Goodness, no, that would be bad," John shuddered, "Do you have any idea how travel sick a dragon gets when not moving under its own power?"

John shuddered, as did Pet. Geoff's mind danced with visions of a large scaled creature hurling the contents of its stomach everywhere and grimaced.

"So how do we get it there?" Sherlock asked impatiently. Sometimes it seemed the man had no imagination at all.

"I'll reanimate it," John replied, that wicked gleam coming back into his eyes, "And then we can fly it back to Wales. The size of the bones indicates it's a Caledonian Gold, which means it will take all three of us easily."

"Wait, what?" Geoff spluttered, "You mean fly it as in ride it?"

"Oooh, can we?" Sherlock breathed, "That would be brilliant!"

"Of course we can," John replied, smiling at the thrilled expression on Sherlock's face. The thin genius was alight with the kind of childish joy and anticipation that came so rarely to him. Geoff swallowed his concerns, not wanting to ruin the moment for his consultant. Besides, the idea of flying on a real dragon was something that he was not about to pass up, no matter what.

"Stand back, then," John waved them back to the edge of the room and Sherlock towed Geoff there when he didn't move as quickly as the consulting detective would have liked. Geoff allowed it, watching with a fascination that never dimmed as John moved forward and began to incant, raising his hands to wave over the skeleton. Pet made an indignant noise and disappeared with a chuff that Geoff had learned to mean it would be back when he was being sensible.

"Brilliant," Sherlock whispered as the magic took hold and the bones rattled off their hooks and wires, reassembling themselves and then clothing themselves in muscle, sinew and scaly hide. It seemed that, like the Welsh gold, this dragon had a faintly rose hue to its hide. Large wings stretched and creaked, veined with darker gold patterns. The four legged beast in front of them rumbled and bent its head to be petted by the Mage that had reanimated it, snorting lightly as it stamped its feet and twitched its long tail. There were ridges on its back that would act as a sort of saddle for the three men that meant to ride it, as well as a couple dangling from the large square jaw.

"Come and say hello, you two," John's voice was quiet and calm, "I want you to step calmly and slowly. Keep your movements deliberate and your voices down."

The hide was surprisingly soft and the dragon blinked a large green eye at Geoff as he rubbed the ridge above it. Sherlock had taken off his gloves and was stroking the broad nose, his eyes darting about to take in as much detail as possible.

"Come on you two – we don't have long. We need to be out over the sea well before the sun rises. We'll fly over the water to Wales and duck inland where there are no houses or people to spot us," John turned and walked to the nearest foreleg, trailing his hand over the jewelled hide as he did so. He used the shoulder as a step and swung himself easily between the first set of ridges. Sherlock was hot on his heels and Geoff close behind, settling himself cautiously and knotting a hand in the back of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock himself was plastered to John's back, arms around his husband's waist.

"Geoff, arms around Sherlock's waist," John instructed, "That grip won't keep you in place."

Geoff did so gingerly, ignoring Sherlock's grumbles. John ignored them too, urging the dragon to back up towards the edge of the room.

"What are you… oh of course – the only way out is the skylight," Sherlock muttered, "Lestrade, shield your eyes."

"Oh bollocks," Geoff moaned and tucked his head into Sherlock's back, ignoring the sound of breaking glass as best he could. There was a terrific lurch and then a rush of air. Geoff was buffeted quite strongly as the dragon's muscles and back worked hard for a moment and then things settled down.

"Unbelievable!" Sherlock's shout was almost whipped away by the wind and Geoff straightened up and looked down. All of London sprawled below them, the ground blurring beneath their feet. Big Ben streak past him and Geoff gave in to the little boy inside him, joined an instant later by Sherlock.

"Yeeeehaaaaaa!"

**End (for now)**

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